The Book of the Dead
by JacquelineJoyeuse
Summary: This is my version of book 4 in the Shades of London series by Maureen Johnson. There are some major *spoilers* from books 1-3. It picks up right where Shadow Cabinet left off.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: None of these characters (thus far) belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun! I couldn't fathom waiting another 2 years for the next book to come out, so I thought I'd satisfy my curiosity for now by creating my own story. Reviews/ comments are always appreciated! Happy reading! Xx**

Jerome and Jazza looked up at me expectantly, waiting for my big explanation. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

Let me explain. Ever since I said my first word, I've been labeled as a Talker. To some degree, this was expected of me. I was Southern. It was our way.

Yet I, Aurora Deveaux, had always been an especially chatty cathy even by Southern standards.

I remember this one time, in 2nd grade. We had to give a presentation in science class on a planet in our solar system. Naturally, I picked Venus, It was the orange one, and orange was my favorite color.

When it was my turn, the teacher called me up to the front of the class, I unveiled my poster with a flourish- I had spent 3 very intense hours the night before ensuring that every shade of orange was just right- and watched, disappointed, as the expressions on my peers' faces remained bored and uninterested.

Disheartened, I went along with my presentation. It wasn't until the bell rang that I realized I had been talking for the entire class period about Venus, its orange color, and why I like orange. None of the other kids even had a chance to go.

I suppose if Mrs. Caderet hadn't taken her arthritis meds that morning, she would've been awake and alert that class period. She might have even stopped me after 5 minutes. But alas, it was the damning combination of Mrs. Caderet's arthritis, my 2nd grade class's disinterest in the Milky Way, and my love of orange that allowed me a 45 minute period of non-interrupted Rory Talk Time.

After class, Mrs. Caderet called me up to the front of the room, told me I had a gift- a gift of communication- and said she was sorry she failed to keep an eye on the time. I got an A.

Because of all this, it was strange that I was having a hard time explaining everything that had been going on in my life for the past month. The events, which I had previously been dying to shout from the rooftops, were silent on my tongue.

Jazza and Jerome were still looking at me, though now the expectancy in their eyes had turned to worry. Jerome, at least, was prepared for the weirdness of it all, witnessing a bit of it only 2 days ago. Jazza was not.

But I couldn't keep lying to them anymore. I just couldn't.

"Icanseeghosts," I blurted. Good start there, Rory.

I cleared my throat, trying for a more calm approach. "I can see ghosts."

I waited for their reaction. When I saw none, I pushed on.

"Remember that night at the dinning hall? Well, I died. But only for a second. But I guess there are people who have an inherent genetic thing, that if they die and then come back to life, they can see ghosts. And these ghosts? They're not ghosts really, just vestigial energy left over on a plane that are only accessible to these people with the sight- that's what we call ghost-seers. So its not as freaky-deaky as all that. There are no kids running around saying ' I see dead people.' Its more science-y. There's a lot of…paperwork."

I took a deep breath, wincing a little, but prepared to continue. Fortunately, Jazza interrupted.

"Hold on," she said, raising a hand up. "The Ripper case? Getting expelled from Wexford? You running away? This is all about you seeing _ghosts_?"

Ah, yes. Listed all out like that, it does seem a little whack-o, and it kind of makes me seem like what my Granny Deveaux would call "an unseemly type". Jerome, for his part, was staring intently at his knee, brow furrowed. In fact, watching him, he reminded me a little of-

_NO_, Rory. We're so _not_ going there right now.

I focused at the matter at hand- destroying my friends' worlds they knew it.

"Er…yes. Its complicated. Just bear with me, okay?"

So I told them. I told them all of it. How the Ripper was actually a disgruntled ghost, that's why he didn't show up in the CCTV cameras. How he targeted me especially because I could see ghosts. How I couldn't keep up with my coursework at Wexford because of it. How Charlotte convinced me to see her new therapist, Jane. How Jane was actually a cult leader, hell -bent- literally speaking- on destroying death. How I had to go undercover to stop her, hence the hideous dye job I haven't managed to fix quite yet. How Charlotte got all Stockholm syndrome-y and lured me into their nefarious trap. How I managed to get out, but some very bad and powerful people were still at large.

"I know its hard to believe, and I know it sounds crazy. But I promise this is the truth. This is what's been happening. I'm sorry it took me till now to tell you guys."

After I was finished, I sat down. And waited. And waited. Being a talker, once I get going, its typically really hard to stop. I forced myself to stop, though. They needed time to process on their own.

Jerome, for his part, was still looking intently at his knee. Jazza's eyes were focused on a spot above my head, purposefully away from my face. She took a deep breath, and refocused her gaze on me.

"I believe you."

For the life of me, this was the absolute last thing I expected her to say.

"You…do?" I sort of whispered.

She nodded, her big brown eyes filling up with tears "It's a lot to take in, but Rory…you don't understand. We were all so worried. _I _was so worried. I thought you joined a gang, or were into drugs, or kidnapped, or something." She sniffled, laughing.

I guess, in a way, all of those things did happen. If you count being in a secret ghost police force as being in a gang, and unknowingly being fed pot brownies and other assorted baked goods by an evil therapist as being into drugs. I think I can safely say I was legitimately kidnapped.

"Oh, no," I reassured Jazza, looking away. "Nothing like that."

She got up and tentatively walked over to hug me. I embraced her, my very best friend at Wexford, like it was the last time we'd ever see each other. For all I knew, it was.

"I'm sorry for worrying you, Jazz."

She laughed self-deprecatingly and wiped her nose. "Oh its okay, sorry for crying on your sweater."

At this point, I looked at Jerome. I had thought Jazza was going to be the hard one to convince, but he still hadn't moved from his position on the bed.

"jer?" Jazza asked, worriedly. Jazza had always seemed like a golden retriever puppy to me, carefree and full of life and love. Now she was different, stiller, in a sense and more easily anxious. I felt a twinge in my stomach as I realized I probably had something to do with that.

Jerome looked up, first at Jazza, hen at me. The silence of the room settled, as if the atmosphere itself knew his words were going to be the deciding factor of how well this talk went.

"I….believe you. I'm skeptical, but I believe you. And that's as much as I can do right now."

I let out a little breath, mostly relieved. "I understand. Thank you for trusting me. Turd."

His mouth quirked up a little at the ends, "You're welcome, piss face."

And just like that, everything was normal between all of us again.

They had questions, tons, and I did my best to explain the ones I could, and deflect the ones I was bound under the Official Secrets Act to protect. This meant I couldn't tell them about the force, or what I was going to do next. Hell, I didn't even know for sure what I was going to do next.

At around midnight, I got a text from Thorpe.

**Security system back up in 5. Be out in 2. **

Thorpe was, decidedly, Not A Talker.

I said my goodbyes, tried valiantly not to cry, and told them I would stay in contact. I didn't know how true that last one was, but I hoped so. Jerome and Jazza were my best friends at Wexford, and I loved them dearly. Saying goodbye to them just didn't feel right, not after all we'd been through together.

I hurried out into the damp, cool night air, keeping to the shadows lest Call Me Claudia look out the window and see me, Worst Hockey Player in Wexford History/ Ripper girl/ expellee, lurking on school grounds.

Thorpe's car was parked in a nearby alley. Before I got in, I paused, and took in the school, a place I'd called my home for the past couple of months. I made sure my eyes lingered on the patch of green the Ripper stole across. This is where it all started. This is where my new life began. Strangely, I didn't want to go. Yes, Wexford had caused me more trouble than I'd ever expected, but somehow, it wasn't the memory of the Ripper, or being expelled, or even choking at dinner that clung to me even as Thorpe's Mercedes drove away. Rather, it was memories like talking to Alistair about Alexander Pope in the library, secretly drinking wine with Eleanor and Gaenor, and laughing in with Jazza and Jerome at the local pub that stuck with me as we drove away from East London toward the Waterloo flat.

It was the happy times that punctured my heart like a fishing hook, tethering me to Wexford. I felt the pull of the line even as we continued past the The Royal Gunpowder, past the Eye, past all the memories and into the future.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorpe dropped me off at the flat, reassuring (warning?) me we'd sort out my new life in the morning. I didn't particularly want to be assigned a new name, nor did I want to figure out what I was going to tell my parents. I liked my name and I liked my parents. This was the part of being in the Super Secret Ghost Hunting Club that I wanted to avoid altogether.

I climbed up the stairs to the flat, unnerved by the flicker of the yellow hall light. I knew I was safe, but I never accommodated well to new surroundings at first. Thorpe thought it best that I stay with Callum, Boo, and Stephen for the time being, at least until we get my new life "sorted". As a result, I was living on my own. On my own with 3 other roommates, that is. But still. Rory was starting to become an adult. The prospect terrified and thrilled me all at once.

I unlocked the door and was met with silent darkness. Everyone was asleep. I checked my phone.

2:30 AM.

Made sense.

I changed into my pjs, brushed and flossed, did the whole routine. I looked at the slightly flushed girl in the mirror.

She was skinny, surprisingly so. Her cheekbones jutted out more prominently, shaping her once roundish face into an angular one. I had always been fairly thin and blessed with a few sizeable assets, but recently, thin was turning into gaunt, and the assets were not as sizeable as they used to be. I was losing weight, and fast. I had chalked it up to the recent medical injuries, stress, becoming-a-terminus thing. I bit my lips so they weren't as paper-white. I ran my fingers through my washed out copper hair. It was finally back to its normal texture, and I was getting kind of used to it. I reminded myself of strawberry shortcake, with the red hair and smattering of freckles on my nose. I knew it had to go, and soon, before the red washed out and it became blonde. But as it was, I would enjoy it. Maybe I would assume the alias Strawberry Shortcake. I would bake shortcakes and wear aprons. It could work.

I sighed, turning off the light and trying to go to bed. I was relegated to the couch, as the whole Rory's moving in thing was kinda sprung on my flat mates last minute. Gallatnly, Stephen offered to take the couch. But that would mean that I would have to sleep in his bed. The innate masochist in me jumped at the idea, (Stephen's sheets! Stephen's pillow! Stephen's smell!) but seeing his discomfort, I declined. I could tough out the couch.

It turns out, I couldn't. The springs were brutal on my back. Giving up the tossing and turning, I flipped on the television, settling on some really old episodes of Dr. Who. That's the benefit of sleeping on the couch, I guess. You can't really sleep, but at least you can watch TV instead.

About 20 minutes into the episode, I heard the hallway floorboards creek. Stephen sat down on the opposite end of the couch. My whole body became instantly more alert, little nerve endings in my brain saying things like That's Stephen! You kissed him! while my heart threatened to explode.

"Can't sleep?" he questioned as he settled into the couch, his posture impeccable, even at 2:30 in the morning.

"Nope," a voice that was not mine squeaked out.

"Me neither."

I surreptitiously watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was barefoot, clad in flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt. He had his glasses on, and they reflected the good Dr. and his Tardis back at the TV. This made it impossible to see his eyes. His black hair was untidy, mussed from sleep. I looked down at his feet. I don't think I'd ever seen Stephen barefoot before. I liked his feet, I mused. Not, that I am a foot fetishist. I don't think I am, anyway. Could you suddenly become a foot fetishist or was it an inherent trait, like seeing ghosts? Were the traits linked? Were all people with the sight also foot fetishists?

"So, why can't you?" Stephen's deep, gravelly- sleep voice dispelled my internal foot fetish pondering for the moment. This relaxed, sleepy Stephen was sort of…sexy. I didn't know quite what to do with that.

I shook my head a bit to try to clear it. "Sorry, what?"

He glanced over at me. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Oh," I laughed a little. "Crazy night. Lotsa thoughts. You know the drill."

Stephen nodded as if he did, in fact, know the drill. "How about you?"

"All the sleeping I've been doing lately has interfered with my usual sleep cycles," he replied, finally turning to look at me head- on. "What happened tonight?"

I took a deep breath, readying myself for his reaction. "I told Jazza and Jerome."

Surprisingly, he just nodded. I knew, on some level, that he at least expected me to tell them. Thorpe wouldn't have driven me to Wexford if that were the case. However, I thought he would at least express his disapproval. Instead, he looked back at the TV.

"How did it go?"

I thought about it. "It went…really good, actually. They believed me, for the most part. It was scarier than I thought it would be though. It was like if they rejected what I was telling them, they would have been rejecting me, in a way. I think I had to put just as much trust in them as they did in me." I flicked my eyes to him. "I don't want to sever all contact with them, even though Thorpe says its best for them. I know what you're going to say, but I just- I've never had to cut people out of my life like that before. I understand why I should, it's just… it's going to hurt a lot." I sagged further into the couch at the prospect of losing- no, giving up- my two friends in favor of my new life.

Stephen looked like he very much wanted to say something. He lifted his hand, then seemed to remember himself before he touched me, so it hovered hesitatingly over my legs, which were all tucked up under me on the couch. We both watched his hand, as if it had a mind of its own free will. He slowly withdrew, and then folded both hands under his butt, as if he were afraid they would escape again.

I was getting tired of tiptoeing around Stephen. This, thing, this distance between us, was awkward. And I didn't like it. Lately, I didn't like any distance between us, but this new "I kissed you, you kissed me back kind-of, do you even like me?" rift was just not my style.

My style was more of the "let's air it all out and hope for the best" variety. But that hadn't worked either. So I was trying the demure thing for a while. Let's be clear, I didn't like it one bit.

A suggestive commercial about condoms came on. I blushed bright scarlet, thanking God for the cover of darkness. Stephen, for his part, looked non-plussed, but that was Stephen all the time.

I couldn't take it- Bedtime Stephen, the condom commercial, the silence. I just couldn't take it.

"So, have you found anything out about Sid and Sadie, the twin weirdos from Freakville?" I asked.

Stephen cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. I realized I had just brought him out of some deep reverie of his own. He hadn't even been paying attention to the condom commercial.

"So far, no. I've been…reaching out to a couple of contacts. Gathering up my resources, using all my contacts, you know. No one's heard of them, or the kind of power they possess," His brow furrowed. "Its troubling, really. We don't quite know what we're up against."

I thought about how strong they were. 3 grown men and 1 girl couldn't incapacitate them. I wondered how they would fare against a whole team of M15ers and guns. I kind of hoped I didn't have to find out. I'd had enough violence over the past 3 days. I kept replaying Jane's death over and over in my head. She was a bad person, but still, to witness someone being callously murdered… I shuddered.

Stephen pulled the afghan off of the back of the couch. "Here", he said, giving it to me.

"Thanks."

We sat in companionable silence for a little bit, me trying not to think about Jane, and Stephen's thoughts as ambiguous as ever. I looked over at him suddenly.

"How are you feeling, by the way? With the whole… well you know. Coming back to life thing."

Let me explain:

When Jane kidnapped me, she made me do an ancient Greek ceremony, one that would take me to some kind of underworld and allow me to bring Stephen and her freakshow twin cult-leaders back from the dead. I complied because of Stephen, and also because she threatened to kill me and a whole bunch of other people.

Anyway, this is what I remember: Jane, cutting into my wrist and dripping my blood on the Oswuld stone, drinking some sort of bad-tasting liquid, going to sleep with Stephen and the freaks all very dead, and waking up with them all very alive. I don't remember what happened in between those things, except for maybe fog. Fog and a tile floor. I remember fog, and fluorescent lights garishly glinting off a black and white tile floor. But that's it.

Stephen said he didn't remember anything either. I don't know what happened out there in the ether, and to be honest I don't care. I'm just so incredibly grateful Stephen is back, and alive.

Even if he hasn't so much as looked like he wanted to kiss me since then.

Stephen looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "I feel fine, physically. Dr. Marigold checked me out today. She said I was completely fine. No evidence of brain damage at all."

He sighed. "Mentally… I don't know. I feel fine. I don't quite know what to do about Boo and Callum. They're being so nice. Boo offered to share her take-out with me yesterday. Callum walked with me to the grocer yesterday. Its as if they're treating me like… I don't know…" He trailed off, puzzled.

I laughed a hard little laugh. "They're treating you like you treat me. They're being overprotective. You're their terminus. Except they love you and they know what it feels like to lose you. They're just trying to prevent that from happening again."

I don't know why I said the terminus part; all I know is that it felt right. Something inside me whispered Stephen's over-protectiveness stemmed from my being the only terminus for a while. I don't know, I was tired and frustrated with my feelings. I've been stabbed, drugged, kidnapped, and technically dead in the last month. Gimme a break.

Stephen let out a surprised breath. I half-expected him to insist he didn't protect me solely because it was his job, but because he cared about me in some way. At this point, I would accept a nice friend-zoning rather than endure more of this weirdness between us.

He opened his mouth, looking a little lost. "Oh," was all he said, his cheeks darkening. "I guess I didn't think about it like that."

I deflated. I was no longer Happy Rory, uncomplicated Southern girl. Lately, I was Sad Rory. Sad Rory endured unrequited love, stabbings, etc., and it seemed she had permanently taken up residence. And as long as things were like this between Stephen and me, she was here to stay.

"Well," I said, a note of finality in my voice. "I'm glad you're okay." I meant it, too. I was speaking from experience, the thing I said about Callum and Boo. I knew what it was to love Stephen Dene, and I knew what it was to lose him. Neither of these activities, as it turned out, were very much fun. In fact, they were both pretty crippling experiences.

He appeared to sense that I wanted to end this conversation. He stiffly stood up, bid me goodnight, and left the room. I watched him go, feeling oozy and unpredictable, like I wanted to scream and cry and kiss him all at the same time. I had never felt like this before, and I hated it. I felt like I didn't own my body anymore. This was precisely the reason I wasn't into recreational drug or excessive alcohol use- I hated feeling out of control.

Jane's words echoed in my head long after Stephen had gone to bed, leaving me to obsess in torment like some lame Shakespearian heroine.

"The way you reacted to seeing him confirmed it. This is the boy you love."

I had scarcely allowed myself to admit it, even in my own head. But I suppose, because it was nighttime- and nighttime reveals things- and the TV light cast a somewhat ethereal, important glow on one's life, maybe it was the look in Stephen's eyes when we moved his hand away, grim and sure; whatever it was, I finally acknowledged what I had never had before:

I was in love with Stephen Dene


	3. Chapter 3

In my dream, it was foggy. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing I noticed was that I was kissing Stephen.

I broke away, confused. "I thought you didn't like me," I said, because it was a dream, and in dreams you can say stuff like that and get away with it.

Stephen smiled. "Of course I like you. You're a stone." A stone? I thought Does he mean a stone-cold fox?

I looked searchingly into his eyes, confused. He was, I noticed now, not wearing his glasses, giving his face a younger, generally non-worried appearance. I liked this Stephen. This Stephen was happier. A happier Stephen made me happier.

I looked around, feeling that we were being watched. "Where are we?" I asked Stephen.

"The Shadow Cabinet knows," he replied, leading me to a familiar-looking house. The house on Hyssop Drive. The fog cleared enough to see that the windows were blazing with yellow light. Someone was home.

"Stephen," I warned. "I don't think we should go in there."

"Its fine," he replied. "The Shadow Cabinet knows."

"Knows what?" I asked. "What is the Shadow Cabinet?"

"I can't tell you," he replied, unhelpfully. I noticed we were walking faster toward the house. A dark, incongruous blob circled the roof. Upon closer inspection, I realized the blob was actually ravens. There were thousands of ravens, in fact, silently circling the house on Hyssop Drive. I shivered.

"Stephen…" But he had already gone in.

I couldn't leave him in there, and I didn't really want to be outside with all the ravens, either. So I plucked up my courage- pun intended- and stepped over the threshold.

I noticed the bodies first. They were strewn about the room, garishly dressed in brilliant neon colors, decorated with gaudy and strange jewelry. Their blood soaked the carpet. I heard my shoes squish, already waterlogged, as I stepped into the room. Jane, Jack, Devina, Charlotte, Clover, Jazza, and Jerome all stared unseeingly toward the ceiling, limbs jutting out at awkward angles. I looked away. There were 3 bodies in the middle of the room- Stephen, I noticed, and Sid and Sadie. Stephen seemed to be sleeping.

"Stephen?" I cautiously wondered, stepping over torsos and heads.

The twins suddenly both sat up, smiling their odd iridescent smiles.

"The Shadow Cabinet knows," they said in unison.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't been updating lately. I live in New Orleans, and Mardi Gras pretty much took up all of last week. Enjoy! Xx**

I woke up with a headache, feeling disturbed by the dream. The grayish morning light was filtering through the curtains. Suffice it to say, I was not feeling optimistic about my day.

Stephen, Callum, and Boo were already up. I could hear their voices hushed in the next room.

"We need to go down there right now if we want to-"

"But Rory's sleeping- you know she'll want to come, Stephen."

'Maybe its best if she doesn't today-"

"Good morning!" I singsonged as I stepped into the kitchen, settling _that _debate. I realized Freddie was there too. I wondered where Thorpe had put her up.

"Hey Ror!" Boo chirped, as if they hadn't all been talking about me a second ago. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Um, coffee's good, thanks." I settled onto a barstool. "So where are we going?"

Stephen looked meaningfully at Boo and Callum and cleared his throat. "Well-"

"We're going to see about some murders," Boo beat him to it. "Remember the magic store owner you and Freddie went to see for information about Jane? He, along with his store clerk, were found dead yesterday, their necks snapped. Based on what the forensic guys found, Clover, the owner, was thrown across the room at a trajectory that was too strong to be human. So we think it might be-"

"Sid and Sadie," I interrupted. "Okay, let me get dressed."

Luckily, Boo had gone shopping for me again. I really needed to get my clothes back. I made a mental note to see if Thorpe could do anything about that later. I found a pair of skinny jeans and an oversized tee. Coupled with black flats, I was the epitome of casual professionalism. I hoped. I ran a brush through my hair, neglected makeup, and I was ready to go.

When I got to the kitchen, everyone was having a similar debate, except this time over Freddie. Stephen claimed she should be on research, since she hadn't had the proper field training yet. I informed everyone that since she and I were the only ones who actually talked to Clover, they needed us. Plus, Freddie knew Clover. He was _her _contact.

I guess I made a pretty compelling case, because 10 minutes later, we were all heading East toward the occult store. The ride over was a little squished, to say the least. Boo called shotgun, so I ended up in the back, squished in the middle between Freddie and Callum. Between Boo's off-key humming, Callum's insistence that I "scoot" and Stephen's habitual sighs, I was beginning to think coming along was a bad idea.

When we got to the shop, there were a lot of uniforms milling around, and very official yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. I steeled myself as we were let in, knowing I would be seeing more bodies. I decided that I'd seen more bodies in the last week than anyone should have to see in their lifetime.

The occult shop was in disarray. Books were stacked everywhere, some wrapped up as evidence, some sprawled on the ground. Immediately, I noticed Clover, or what used to be Clover, crumpled up on the floor, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His bluish- gray face was frozen in a strange expression- sort of stuck between joyous and befuddled.

While Stephen talked to the officer in charge of the crime scene, the rest of us looked around. It was impossible to distinguish what was potentially out of place and what wasn't- the bookstore was so disorganized. It was also a very English bookstore, in that it was cramped, with virtually no space, the aisles barely big enough for one person to fit comfortably.

I moseyed around- can one "mosey" at a crime scene?- trying to remember the first time I'd been there. We didn't really linger around the store; we'd spent most of the time in Clover's office. Plus, I recalled, I wasn't exactly in the right state of mind to notice details. Stephen had just died.

Feeling a little out of place, and mostly trying to remember my first visit, I moseyed around the shop, CSI gloves on. I picked up a heavy, old-looking leather tome. I flipped through it, careful not to rip any of the yellowed pages. The book feltoddly warm and inviting_. _I couldn't explain it exactly, but it felt alive. _Special. _

"The Book of the Dead," someone said right behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder. Stephen was intently focused on the book in my hands.

"Sounds creepy," I replied intelligently. "What is it?"

"Essentially, Ancient Egyptian burial rites. Its basically a guide book- you know, How to Get Into the Afterlife 101."

"Oh." I said, placing the book back on the shelf. As it left my hands, I felt kind of empty inside. I decided to research the creepy thing later. I turned around to face Stephen, who was still focused on the book. "Find anything yet?"

He brought his attention back to me. "Clover's ghost isn't here, if that's what you're asking. And it's hard to discern what's just messy and what's upturned. We'll know more when we have the store's inventory records."

I nodded, disappointed. It would've been so nice if Clover had come back all ghost-y and just told us what the deal was.

Suddenly, I noticed how close Stephen and I were. Like, I could feel his breath on my cheek_ close_. Thank god for tight English bookstores. He seemed to realize the same thing, because at once he nervously cleared his throat and tried to step back, bumping into the bookshelf behind him and knocking over some Tarot guidebooks.

He cleared his throat again. "Well. Er- I'm just going to…" He gestured vaguely toward the middle of the store.

I watched him walk off, laughing bitterly to myself. Only I would fall in love with someone who was so freaked out by my presence.

I turned back to the book, still oddly drawn to it. I don't know if it was the thing with Stephen, the general messiness of the bookstore, or the book itself that made me do what I did next. But I snatched it, stuffing it into my oversized puffy coat. It felt _right _there, nestled between my boob and my wallet.

"Rory!" Freddie called, making me jump. "We've got to go."

I turned to follow, making sure the book was safely hidden.

In the car, we came to the thrilling consensus that nothing new was found. I justified keeping my petty theft a secret with 3 reasons:

Firstly, I didn't know much about The Book of the Dead. Stephen did, and he didn't seem to think it was important. If I spoke up about a _feeling _I had, one without any sort explanation, Boo would probably make me tea and tell me to "go lie down for a bit, yeah?"

Secondly, because of this general ignorance on my part, I would need to research. In order to research, it'd be helpful to have the actual thing there, right?

And thirdly, that bookstore was so disorganized no one would miss a big old dusty book. Also its owner was dead. He certainly wasn't going to look for it.

Once we arrived at the flat, everyone went their separate ways, including me. I didn't have time to set up shop with a cup of earl grey and my laptop, because Stephen got a call about another problem ghost near the crack I'd found a while ago. Callum and Boo both had the other termini (the ones I'd stolen from Jane's bloody neck. Jeez I've been stealing a lot recently. For good reasons, but still) and they had already left for work/ training in the Tube tunnels. Freddie had murmured something about the library.

As a result, I was the only terminus around. Stephen was stuck with me. Internally, I was both thrilled and dismayed at the fact I'd have to spend more time with him. Thrilled, because Stephen. Dismayed, because at the moment I don't think I was his favorite person.

Before we left, he offered to make breakfast. I declined. I hadn't had much of an appetite recently, finding it hard to keep down most foods. This slightly worried me. I had never had this sort of problem before, but I guess I hadn't been in love before. I had never taken the whole "can't eat, can't sleep" myth quite so literally. Plus, food seemed to worsen the constant headache I had almost gotten used to. Come to think of it, maybe I was coming down with something.

I shook the weirdness off, and dove headfirst into more weirdness. The Stephen kind. We took the Tube, hoping to remain inconspicuous. The police car would turn heads at a pub for walk there was not very lively. I attempted to make conversation a few times, but Stephen seemed distracted by something, so eventually I embraced the silence.

On the Tube, I was sandwiched between Stephen and a very uptight-looking mother and her extremely well mannered son. Actually, the kid kind of reminded me of Stephen, or at least what Stephen might have been like when he was little. He was small, playing a game on his mom's iPhone, some kind of math game. See what I mean?

He noticed me looking at him, dismissed me as less important than the 7 + 6 problem at hand, and went back to his game.

"What level are you on?" I asked him, being very American. Londoners don't talk to strangers on the Tube, even little kids.

He didn't look up from the game. "Level 6. There are 10 levels, but levels 7 and up are stuff I haven't learned in school yet," he informed me.

"Oh, I see," I nodded along. "Nicely done."

He paused the game, looking up at me with a quizzical brow that seemed far older than his years. "The way you talk is strange. Are you from the United States?"

That was another thing. Everyone in Europe called us the United States. Not America. The United States.

"Yes, I'm from New Orleans. It's in the South."

He nodded, as if this affirmed some sort of assumption he'd made about me. "You talk like people I saw in a movie once. Do you wear those big fancy dresses?"

I looked down at my plain outfit. "No, " I said, 'I don't. But sometimes girls do, on special occasions" thinking of the Miss Benouville pageant and various civil war reenactments I'd been forced to go to as a kid.

'Do you have pictures?" he asked, clearly desiring proof.

"Let me see," I said, sifting through my phone. Finally I found one of me and my friend Katie,, last years' Miss Benouville. She was donned in a true Scarlet O'Hara get up, huge frills and bows everywhere. Still, she was gorgeous. In the picture, we were hugging, smiles wide. Winning Miss Benouville had been the plan since she had been about 4 years old. That whole year, I'd been her campaign manager, talking up the judges in town for her, one of whom was my own grandmother. (Besides her family, Granny Deveaux loved only two things: margaritas, and the Miss Benouville pageant.) That's why, when Katie won, it had felt like a success on my part too.

I showed the little boy the picture, and he laughed. This seemed to surprise his mother a great deal. She turned to me, her eyes slightly widened, and looked down at the picture on my phone. Satisfied it wasn't anything dirty, she went back to her book, though I saw several furtive glances come our way.

Still giggling a little, the kid introduced himself. "I'm James," holding out a formal hand.

We shook. "Rory," I said. "Nice to meet you."

"Hello, Rory." James shifted his attention to Stephen. "Is he your husband?"

Up until this point, Stephen had been watching the whole exchange with mild interest and amusement. Now, he looked like he had swallowed a bug.

"Erm, no," I hastened to reply. "This is my friend, Stephen."

James pinned him with a hard stare. "Do you have a funny accent too?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Stephen apologized, straightening his glasses.

"Oh," James replied, disappointed. He turned to me again. "Do you have any more pictures?"

So the rest of the Tube ride went on like that until it was our stop. Before I could, the mom pulled my arm. "He hasn't taken that well to anyone, ever. Are you available to babysit this Friday?" She had the rabid look of someone who desperately needed a night out.

"Um," I said, disentangling myself "I…"

Stephen saved me. "She leaves for the US tomorrow, sorry," he broke in smoothly.

The woman nodded, crestfallen. "Bye James!" I called, feeling awkward. "Bye Rory!" he replied, already back to his game.

On the platform, Stephen looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You're very good with kids," he said quietly.

"Thanks," I said. "I just try to talk to them like they can understand stuff."

He mulled that over. "We're going to the same pub again, by the way. The Flowers and Archers. The new owner, Charlie's daughter, is thinking of selling. She's tired of rearranging the basement."

I remembered her. "Is the new ghost as…. temperamental as the last one?" I asked, being diplomatic. The last ghost had beaned the last owner to death with a hammer.

Stephen shook his head, "Not as far as I know. Just freaking out the staff. The owner remembered we discretely took care of the problem last time and called me."

The pub was empty at this time of the day. The woman who owned the place recognized Stephen immediately. "Hello," she said to us, eyeing me up and down. I don't think she liked me very much. At the very least, she was suspicious of me.

"Its in the basement again. I don't know what's going on," she rambled, showing us the stairs. "I've been thinking of selling the place. It was my dad's life work, but if weird stuff like this keeps happening... I don't see how we can keep the place."

She was eyeing Stephen oddly. She was looking up at him, batting her eyelashes like she…was she _flirting _with him?

I didn't know how to process this information. I assessed my competition. She was very pretty, kind of willowy, like a runway model, and she had very long blonde hair. She was probably 25 or so. I immediately hated her.

She touched Stephen's arm, light and lingering. "Be careful," she warned him, looking deeply into his eyes. I started seeing red.

Stephen, for his part, blushed and looked away. "Right, then. We'll see what we can do." He looked at me as if to ask "Coming?" and descended into the dark by himself.

I hastened to keep up with him, not trusting myself to be alone with that woman and _not _scratch her pretty green eyes out of her head.

When we got down into the basement and turned the light on, we realized we were not alone. Aside from a colony of ants (BIG health code violation in my opinion) and the musty smell of the underground, there was a man seated on a crate in the corner, rocking back and forth, muttering nonsense. He dressed in what seemed to be a very formal, Victorian-looking suit, top hat and everything. His face was blurred.

Stephen saw him too. "I think we have our ghost."

I didn't want to terminate him. He seemed so sad and harmless. But I knew he was unstable, and if I didn't, he'd keep causing problems.

Not knowing quite what to do, I approached him. "Rory…", Stephen warned, coming up right behind me. He stepped in front of me. "Let me."

Clearing his throat, Stephen addressed him. "Sir? Excuse me, Sir?"

No reply. I stepped closer too. "Can you hear us?" At my voice, his head whipped up, startling me. "Elizabeth?" he warbled. His voice was about as distinct as his face.

"Um," I hesitated. "No, I'm Rory. Sorry. But-"

"Elizabeth?" He stood up, remarkably fast. I backed up. "Elizabeth? Elizabeth?"

"No, I'm not Elizabeth. I'm Rory," I insisted, hands up.

"Rory, get back," Stephen said, sounding anxious. But Stephen and I weren't prepared for his speed. The man rushed at me, arms outreached. I backpedaled as far as I could, but I was too slow. He was touching me, and then there was pain.

Excruciating, mind-numbingly terrible pain. I felt like he had reached inside me, grabbed everything in there, and yanked it out. The pull felt like the one that I had felt in the hospital with Stephen, except it _hurt_. Then it was over.

My headache now a full-blown migraine, my vision turned black before I felt myself fall. Along with Stephen's garbled shout, the last thing I was aware of before I lost consciousness was the smell of burning flowers and hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! Newest chapter's up. Tell me what you think! Xx**

Compared to Wexford, high school in Benouville was kind of a joke. Well, at least it was, until Mr. Watts started teaching Philosophy.

Because I was preparing for my senior year in London, junior year was spent in somewhat of a chaotic mess. My family was running around like chickens with our heads cut off. My parents were trying to get the houses, _plus _their research _plus_ their classes in order, and I was trying to perfect my application to Wexford, _plus_ maintain my 4.0, _plus _research London. Oh and we had a deadline that was fast approaching. It was, in a word, madness.

Anyway, I was a good student- number 2 in my class, actually- and so my teachers were all giving me a bit of a break. It was Benouville, so naturally everyone knew the Deveauxs were moving to London in the fall. They knew I had a lot on my plate.

Because Mr. Watts was new to Benouville, Mr. Watts neither knew nor cared about this. This is why, junior year, I was struggling for an A- in what should have been an easy elective.

Fresh out of college, Mr. Watts had the unmistakable air of hope about him. He intended to make a _difference._ He intended to _inspire _us. If life were a movie, Mr. Watts would have realized by the end of the year that his students had actually taught _him _something_, _and there would be kumbaya-ing, and as he was walking away from Benouville High School with unshed tears in his eyes, the screen would fade to black.

As it was, we hated him because his class was just plain hard. Also he was kind of a pretentious dick.

Because I was forced to pay attention in his class, I learned a lot. Not that I don't like to learn. I mean, I like learning, I really do. I wouldn't be top of my class if I didn't. It was just, London in the fall. Chaotic mess? You know?

Mr. Watts talked about Plato a lot. Plato was Mr. Watts' favorite, you could tell. His eyes would shine almost reverently behind his glasses, and he would gesture around with his arms a lot, sweating through his shirt in weird places.

During one of these times, - his armpit stains were particularly dark and large that day- I remember Mr. Watts talking about abstractions and ideas, and truth, and reality. Essentially, there were certain things in life that were somehow more real and less real than others. For example, no one could really point at a work of art and say "that's Beauty, that work of art _IS _Beauty", instead they would say, "that's beautiful". The point of the whole thing was, these abstractions, these ideas, were simultaneously more real and less substantial than examples of the things themselves.

Now do you see what I mean? About how hard his class was?

So anyway, I got to thinking. What if we, humans, are like works of art? What's if we're just examples of some larger idea? What if we're just instances- 70-80 year old flashes- of humanity, going through life on a separate plane of existence from what we're supposed to actually be: some weird, unattainable abstraction of Humanity?

Because I was stressing out enough already, I stored that little tidbit away in my brain to revisit later. I couldn't exactly handle an existential crisis on top of everything else.

It was when I started seeing ghosts that I thought about this idea again. Scientifically, I know ghosts are just vestigial energies, floating around on our plane. But philosophically? They could be one step closer to reaching that abstraction, to becoming one with the idea of Humanity again.

I was half thinking/half dreaming about this as I woke up, and that's how I knew I had hit my head when I fell. I only think about stuff like that when the majority of my brain is otherwise checked out.

As I opened my eyes, there was a lot of gray, and then there was a sort of white blob that separated the gray. I blinked, and I realized that white blob was a face, and that face looked very worried; and that face had a mouth, and the mouth was moving. Stephen. The world abruptly rearranged itself into sharp, painful focus.

"-Ory? Rory? Can you hear me? Rory?"

I tried to move my mouth, but I couldn't quite speak yet. I went into panic mode. What if I couldn't talk? What if I'd hit my head and I'd lost my ability to speak? What if I was forever mute now? I couldn't be a mute. I loved talking. I would have to get a voice thing like Stephen Hawking. I would scare small children.

"Unhh" I groaned, answering that question. My whole body hurt, but not in the way you'd expect it to after a fall. It _ached_. I felt like I had just been torn apart and put back together again. I felt it down to a cellular level, if that was even possible. My felt like it was splitting in half. I fought the urge to throw up, not because I wanted to save myself the embarrassment, but because I knew it would hurt too much.

"Rory?" Stephen asked, running his hands over my head, shoulders, neck, belly, checking for injuries. Normally, this would have been lovely. I wasn't strong enough, but I wanted to slap his hands away. He was being gentle, but it felt like he was torturing me.

"Stephen," I whispered, throat raw from trying to keep from screaming. "Please stop. It hurts. Everything hurts."

Stephen jerked back as if I _had_ slapped him. "Sorry! Sorry. Sorry. Okay. Rory we're gonna get you out of here. But first I need you to stand, can you walk?"

I thought about it. "I don't think so. I'll try-" I moved to sit up, but all at once everything in my body told me that was a very _bad idea_, so I collapsed onto the grimy basement floor again, staring helplessly up at Stephen.

"I don't think I can," I said, pitifully. I desperately tried not to whine as I fought the urge to pass out again.

Stephen looked like he was in agony, which kind of confused me, because I was the one lying prostrate on the floor, after all. "Don't worry about it, darling," he said belying his upbringing. Stephen looked frazzled. Stephen often looked worried or anxious. I had never seen him frazzled though. No matter the situation, he was always very nicely put together. "We're going to get you out of here. Okay? We're just waiting on a car from Thorpe."

Vaguely, I heard someone coming down the steps. "Is she all right?" It was the blonde woman, the previous owner's daughter. I closed my eyes, shutting out the image of her stupid, beautiful face.

"Yes, she will be." Stephen barked. Woah. Angry Stephen was coming out? I opened my eyes again. His shoulders were tense as he addressed her, but he was still looking at me.

"Well…that's good," the woman ventured hesitatingly, taken aback. "Is everything quite fixed now?"

"Your problem will be taken care of if you seal up that crack in the wall. But for now, yes, everything is fine." Stephen's tone was dismissive. Inwardly, I cheered.

"Does she need water or ice? I have some up at the bar, but we have customers…"

Stephen looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. I didn't think I could manage to get anything down.

"That's quite all right. Now, if you don't mind, this is official police business. We'll be out of your hair soon." He looked meaningfully at the stairs.

"O-Of course," she stammered, looking dazed. I doubt she'd ever been rejected by a guy her whole life. Despite everything going on, my heart- my stupid, traitorous heart- swelled up. I felt like the opposite of the Grinch. (I felt like Santa Clause?)

As she left, I refocused on Stephen. He was still looking at me, murmuring it was all going to be okay. And it was.

I was beginning to lose consciousness again, but before I did, I was aware of being picked up by some very strong arms. I struggled to stay awake, because I knew I didn't want to miss being carried by Stephen. But I guess my body had other ideas, because everything went black again.

I woke up (again) in an unfamiliar bed. The bed sheets-satin-were tossed, and immediately I noticed the room had a boyish feel. It was dark outside. How long had I slept for?

I glanced over at the nightstand. Books. With a start, I realized I was in Stephen's room. I sat up- probably too quickly, because the room started to spin- and looked around.

White walls. One art poster- Henry Fuseli's 'The Nightmare", thank you very much Art History- graced them. Books and files strewn everywhere. Yep, this was definitely Stephen's room. I took a deep breath, taking it all in. His sheets smelled like him, like paper and diligence and soap. Shamelessly, I took another deep breath.

Before I got the chance to snoop, the door opened slowly, Stephen's head peeping through. "Oh, good! You're up! Er- how are you feeling?" Cautiously, he stepped through the door, looking mighty uncomfortable for someone who was standing in his own room.

"Good, I think. I'm really hungry. How long have I been out for?" I looked away awkwardly. Keep it casual, Rory. Be cool. You're in his bed, and it's pretty much the weirdest and greatest thing ever, but act like its no big deal.

"A couple of hours. Want me to make you something to eat?"

My stomach screamed its approval. I flushed. "Sure!" I chirped. He nodded, and walked to the kitchen. I followed close behind, socked feet padding soundlessly on the carpet. Wait, where were my shoes? Did I lose them at The Flowers and Archers?

"Um," I croaked, my voice still groggy. "Did I leave my shoes at the pub?" Stephen turned to open a cupboard, his back to me, but not before I caught the reddening of his cheeks. He suddenly seemed very busy assembling cookware "I took them off when I put you in my room. I thought you would be more comfortable."

"Oh. Well, thanks," I said, touched. I surreptitiously ducked my head to smell my feet. They smelled okay. That, at least, was a relief.

Serving up grilled cheese, Stephen looked at the clock. He muttered a curse word under his breath. "I have to be somewhere right now, are you okay here alone?" he asked hurriedly. I blinked. He pulled on a jumper and he out the door by the time I had swallowed the bite of sandwich and said yes.

I looked at the clock. Crap. I had plans to meet up with Jerome and Jazza that night. I briefly considered canceling. I had gone through what the medical community calls an _ordeal_ that day, after all. But I realized hanging with my friends would be a desperately needed dose of normalcy. I knew Boo and Callum would be gone all night anyway, and I would be left to stew in an empty flat all night. So, I took an advil, and decided to pull it together. I told Jerome and Jazza to to meet me at The Mayflower, a local pub near the Waterloo flat.

I showered and changed into one of Boo's picks: a short, black and white striped body-con skirt that made my butt look great, and paired it with a somewhat tight-fitting white shirt. Oddly, the shirt seemed looser on me than what it used to be. Still, this was the sexiest I had looked in a long time, and I wasn't sure I was too comfortable with it. I really needed to do laundry, soon, if I didn't want this kind of thing to be my everyday garb. I ran a brush through my hair, I added mascara, eyeliner, and blush, and pulled on my trusty black combat boots, finishing the look off quite nicely. It was a plus that I could fit my keys in them.

Crap. I was already late. I texted that I was on my way.

That night, the pub was having a 2 for 1 special. Jazza, I discovered, was well into her 3rd by the time I got there. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" she screamed. "It's Rory's birthday!"

It wasn't.

Fortunately, no one seemed to hear her. She shrugged, smiling. "Jerome's at the bar!" she giggle-shouted to be heard over the din.

"How're you feeling?" I asked her, amused.

"Oh, lovely, just lovely! It's your birthday!" she yelled again, taking another swig. "Happy 29th birthday Rory! Urmabestfriend." Oh dear lord. I'd forgotten Jazza was a lightweight. She grabbed my arm, looking deeply into my eyes. "I need you to understand that. Even if you see"- at this she looked around surreptitiously- you know, _ghosts,_" she giggled. Suddenly, she threw her hands up, knocking her beer and making it slosh a little. "None of that matters at all! NOT ONE BIT," she declared.

It was then that Jerome came back, arms filled with pints. He all but shoved 2 at me, his floppy hair and floppy grin flopping all over the place. "Hey, Rory!" he greeted me, laughing at Jazza. "Clearly, you've got to play catch-up."

"Thanks!" I replied, dutifully receiving my alcoholic gifts.

With that, the evening commenced. It was around my 2nd beer that I realized I was properly wasted. But I didn't care. All the stress I'd been under lately had put things into perspective. There were important things going on, life or death situations, but I was still young. Plus, drinking lessened the headache a bit. It had never completely gone away.

I forgot how fun it was to hang out with these two. Okay, yes, I was hammered, but also Jerome and Jazza's company was always so easy to be in. I enjoyed their easy conversation, hearing about Wexford and prefect business, Jazza's German studies… it was all very familiar. And precisely what I needed.

At 1:15, I got a text from Stephen.

**Where are you?**

I giggled and replied.

**Out with friends.**

The response was immediate.

**Come home. It's not safe.**

I threw my phone in my bag, choosing to ignore him. As far as Stephen was concerned, my phone had died.

Time drifted, as it does when one's drunk, and I drifted with it. Jazza had sobered up a little bit ago, jumping into the cab Jerome had hailed for her and claiming she had a German test the next morning. Jerome had no such qualms. The warm ambience of the bar had settled in my bones. Everything was somehow amber colored amber, even if it wasn't, and the string lights made me feel safe. I felt cut off from the harsh cold of London, cut off from the terrible things that happened out there.

I looked at my phone, seeing double. I blinked to clear my eyes.

**1:20: Rory. I'm serious.**

**1:25: Sid and Sadie could be anywhere in the city.**

**1:30 Where are you? I'll come get you.**

They continued in that vein for a while. I realized it was 3 AM. "Jerome!" I gasped, laughing. "Its 3! I've got to go!"

"Unh" the thing that used to be Jerome groaned. His head was on the table, and he appeared to be trying to sleep. "I'll walk you home." Jerome was chivalrous like that.

We stumbled our way back to the flat, laughing and teasing the whole time. I realized that I missed Jerome. Not being in a relationship with him, necessarily. But the fun, friendly Jerome. The Jerome I liked immediately on sight. Rock n' roll Jerome.

When we got to the stairs, I realized getting inside was going to be a problem. The world was spinning much too fast for any sort of coordinated stair tackling. Jerome looked to be having he same epiphany.

"We're going to have to use the buddy system," I informed him.

That was how, 5 minutes later, we were both leaning against the door to the flat, laughing and out of breath.

"Thank you for a great night," I said to him, remembering my manners. "And for all the drinks."

"No problem," he replied. "It was revolting." We smiled at each other. I was relieved. Even though we were both drunk, I knew everything was cool between me and Jerome. Finally.

This is how Stephen found us, leaning sort of on one another and smiling.

He stopped in the hallway, his clothes wet. He looked flushed, like he had just been running in the rain. That's odd, I thought. Doesn't he know this is a terrible time for a run?

Palpable relief washed over his face at the sight of me, then, as he took in Jerome and I, his face shuttered, like Billy Bob's cellar door would during a hurricane, quickly and succinctly.

"Rory," he said flatly. "You should go inside."

Confused, a little angry at his bossy tone, but feeling mostly totally in love with him, I bid goodnight to an awkward-looking Jerome, and went inside, Stephen following close at my heels.

Unbalanced, I nearly fell into the room. I laughed as Stephen caught me. As he righted my prone and foolish self, he noted drily, "You're drunk." Leaning heavily on him, I confirmed it, nodding my head seriously. "As a skunk," I supplied, laughing into his neck. I felt his stomach tense up at the contact. I sighed, suddenly exhausted.

He helped me into a kitchen barstool. "You need to drink some water," he insisted, a bit harshly. I watched up fill up a glass, noticing his broad shoulders and his tapered waist. I wanted to feel those shoulders and that waist. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hang on for dear life.

If Stephen noticed me ogling him, he didn't say anything. Instead he placed a sandwich on the table and sat across from me, texting someone, then slammed the phone on the table.

"Are you mad at me?" I questioned, genuinely curious.

"Am I mad at you?" Stephen barked a hard little laugh, shaking his head.

"No, Rory, I'm not mad at you. I'm _furious!"_

I gaped. I had never actually heard Stephen yell before, though his anger seemed somehow familiar. Yelling Stephen was dreadful. Yelling Stephen's voice was booming and rumbly, like a crack of thunder. If I had been sober, I probably would have been taken aback. Because I wasn't, I chortled like an idiot. Unsurprsingly, this only seemed to make him madder.

"Not only do you _directly disobey orders,_ orders that were meant to keep you safe, you do so drunk and vulnerable in a pub! And when your senior officer tries to contact you, you blatantly ignore the texts! I just spent 2 hours running around London, looking for you, praying to God Sid and Sadie hadn't gotten to you! You were supposed to lay low, Rory. Not forever, not indefinitely, but _just until we get this sodding case sorted!_" Stephen was leaning toward me, hands flat on the table. When he saw me lean away, he attempted to control himself, taking a deep breath. It wasn't that I was afraid of Stephen, I knew he would never hurt me. I was just surprised by his outburst, and my alcohol-soaked brain responded accordingly. Irrationally, but accordingly.

His out-of-character anger didn't really bug me. I don't think it would have if I had been sober. I was more interested in his behavior, and kind of flattered. Even drunk, I could see that underneath it all, he was worried about me. Maybe even scared.

I reached over the table and grabbed his hand. "I'm fine, Stephen, honestly. A lil' drunk, but it happens right?" I lifted my hands in a 'what can you do?' gesture. I wasn't totally sure my eyes were open. "I'm sorry for causing suck a ruckus."

At this, his lips turned up a little. "A ruckus?"

I sighed around the water glass. "My grandmother says it."

Suddenly, I felt the need to tell him the truth. I was a fountain of truth, and if I only shared my wisdom with the world, it would be a better place. Some people get drunk and puke. I get drunk and decide everyone needs to hear Rory's Perspective on Things.

"You know somethin'?" I asked him, my drawl coming out more syrupy, thanks to the beer. "You're a terrific person, Stephen Andrew Dene."

Stephen looked surprised, and rightly so, because it was only a moment ago he was shouting at me. "My middle name is Dorian."

"Whatever." I made a mental note to come back to that one later. I waved my hand airily. "You really are. You wanna know why? You do things like this." I gestured vaguely to myself. "You look for drunk girls with headaches in the wee hours of the morning. You're a good person who _cares_. That's why I love ya," I concluded, pointing my finger at him.

He stilled. "What?"

I blundered on, unbothered by his response. "It's true, Stephen Dene, _c'est vrai. _You're great, _fantastique, wunderbar_!Remember during the Ripper? After you told me I had the sight, I knew you wouldn't lie to me. You were the only one who gave it to me straight. I was in a strange city, involved in a strange murder case, seeing strange things. You made me feel like all of that was manageable. You gave me something to hold on to, something that made sense. You're a good person, and a great cop." I nodded my head vigorously, accidentally biting my tongue.

There was a silence as I gave him a minute to take that in.

"So where is errybody?" I slurred, noticing again that the apartment was empty.

"Callum and Boo are out looking for you. I texted them that you're okay."

"Oh," I mumbled around the sandwich, feeling kind of guilty I woke them up. Mmm. Peanut butter.

"You're wet!" I proclaimed.

Stephen regarded me tiredly. "It was raining."

That made sense.

Now he had a question for me. "Where were you tonight?"

"I was at The Mayflower with Jerome and Jazza. Jerome bought all the beer. Like loads of beer. Like enough beer to swim in. Jazza got really drunk, you know how she's a lightweight? Well she is. So she drank a lot of beer and then she left. She speaks German and she didn't want to be hung over, you know? So anyway, there was all this beer, and there was Jerome, sleeping on the table, and someone had to drink it. So I nominated myself. Then I saw your texts, and they were hard to keep up with and then kind of hard to read, so I stopped responding."

I paused to take another bite of my sandwich. For some reason, Stephen's shoulders relaxed a little bit when he learned that Jazza was there too.

"All in all, it was a good birthday."

Stephen looked flummoxed. "Its your birthday?" His remaining anger seemed to deflate out of him in one big _whoosh. _

I laughed. "No. Jazza kept saying that it was though. Like I said, she was _gone." _ It made me think of my birthday though. How full of _home_ it was.

"Normally back home we would have a party. And Uncle Bob and Gina and Granny Deveaux and my cousin Diane would come over. And Cousin Diane would be running around, telling us The Angels are here smiling down on us, along with some of our dead family members. Granny Deveaux would be talking about how this year is my last year to run for Miss Benouville, and how eating my birthday cake would not help my chances at winning. My dad would burn the hamburgers because he'd be distracted by Uncle Bob's parakeets pooping on the roses. My friends are used to this by now, so they'd endure the whole spectacle until we could sneak the leftover bottles of wine for a bonfire later. Then everyone would come over and I'd probably get a little tipsy and maybe make out with Jem Davis."

"Jem Davis?" he asked.

Jem Davis was my make out buddy at home. He was very cute, very into football, and probably never going to leave Benouville. I liked to think I was very cute, very into my grades, and getting the hell out of Benouville. I kind of already had. Alas, our romance was always fated ill.

I didn't realize I said all that out loud until Stephen nodded.

I kept talking about my birthday, my grandmother, my friends. I'd been prattling on for a long time. I looked over at Stephen, half-expecting him to be asleep. But he didn't look bored. He looked pretty sad, actually. He looked like he had just found out something awful had happened to a friend. He looked like he was hurting, but not for himself. He looked like he was hurting for someone else.

"You look sad," I remarked.

He rearranged his features into his neutral cop face. "I'm sorry for yelling earlier," he said quietly.

"It's okay," I said. Let's be real, he was forgiven the moment his rant ended. Finished with my sandwich (he had made me so many sandwiches today), I pushed the plate out of the way and laid my head on the table. I was suddenly very tired, and the headache was back with a vengeance.

"Rory?" Stephen probed.

"I'm tired."

"I know you are, love. But you can't sleep here." Even very drunk and half-asleep, the term of endearment was not lost on me. Still, I was incapable of movement.

"Unh," I replied. Apparently, I was also incapable of speech.

I think I fell asleep on the table, because the next thing I remember was being carried to the living room, my head tucked under Stephen's chin. I felt myself slowly lowered to the couch, and then my boots being slowly removed. He placed a blanket over me, and I sighed, snuggling into it. I don't know if I was drunk and delusional, but I swear I felt him brush my hair out of my face and place the lightest whisper of a kiss on my forehead.

Throughout the night, I slipped in and out of a dreamless sleep. I heard Boo and Callum come in at some point, various whispers of "Is she alright?" and Stephen's reassurances drifted down the hallway.

"Really, Stephen. She was out with friends, yeah? No need to alert Scotland Yard. "

"She wasn't responding to my texts-"

"Mate, _I _don't respond to your texts half the time."

"That's different."

"Its only different because you fancy her! Stephen, we need to focus all of our energy on finding Sid and Sadie. That means getting an appropriate amount of sleep and _not _calling red alert every time Rory goes out to the pub."

"She could've been in serious danger-"

"Stephen, this isn't the Ripper case! At first, I thought your single-minded drive to protect her was because she was a target, for the Ripper and then for Jane. But now I see what it is- you're letting your personal feelings affect your work."

They were all quiet after that, and it wasn't long before I succumbed to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! So I finally got this posted. Thanks for being patient, and to everyone who e-mailed me for the new chapter! Hope you liked it!**

_I_ woke up early the next morning majorly hungover._ Like, 'this just be what it feels like when you're dead_' hungover. I wanted to curl up into a little ball and wait it out, but from the numerous parties I'd been to over the years, I knew that would only make it worse. So I stumbled into the bathroom, quietly puked my guts out for, oh, about 30 minutes, and dragged my sorry ass into the shower, where I sat down and promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up (again) some time later, the water had gone cold, but I felt a lot better. My stomach grumbled, actually hungry for the first time in weeks. Taking this as a good sign, I stood, ignoring the black spider webs encroaching on my vision, and finished getting ready.

While I was brushing my hair, the night came rushing back at me, in all of its humiliating glory. Oh Jesus. Beer, I remembered beer. Lots of beer. And Stephen's face, tense and angry. And, oh my God, I talked to him. A lot. Oh God, what did I even say?

I looked at my face in the mirror, and regretted it immediately.I was pale, almost the color of parchment. My wet, black hair stood out in stark contrast against my skin, the dye finally washed out. My eyes stood out too big for my face. I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips to give them some color, then observed the overall effect with dismay. I looked like I had consumption. I kind of felt like it too.

I cautiously walk to the kitchen, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of life. I needed to get some coffee in me before could face the previous night's events. The coast was clear. Relieved, I made myself a pot of coffee and tried not to pass out again.

When Stephen walked through the door, I nearly choked on my coffee. He was breathing hard, headphones blaring some very un-Stephen like music. Some sort of indie rock. The Killers, maybe? Decked out in running clothes, all sweaty and hot- literally- I did all I could to remain calm. What I wanted to do was rip off his clothes and go at it with him right there on the uncomfortable futon. What I actually did was shakily sip my coffee and tentatively wave as he took off his tennis shoes. I quickly patted my hair down a little, bit my lips, and pinched my cheeks.

Then, when the events from last night suck again, unbidden, into my thoughts I remembered I was supposed to be avoiding him. I didn't need to pinch my cheeks to give them color anymore; my utter humiliation did the trick.

Stephen pulled out his headphones, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. Drinking it slowly, he eyed me. The way his throat moved when he swallowed... oh God, I needed another cold shower.

"So, about last night..." I started uncomfortably. I thanked God Stephen had turned his back to fix himself some tea, because I didn't want to know how red my face was. I figured I would either awkwardly think about naughty things when he was in the room, or awkwardly address last night. The latter was more productive.

"Don't worry about it," Stephen said, impassively reading me over his mug. I hated when he did that. Sometimes I just wanted to shake his skinny shoulders and _make_ him react t me.

Despite all of this, I hugged my middle, glad to have that behind us. "Okay," I replied simply. "So what's on the agenda for today?"

"I have a meeting with Thorpe, Freddie is doing some research at the library, and Boo and Callum are working on the Tube again. So.."

"That leaves me," I sighed outwardly, trying to look disappointed. Inwardly, I rejoiced. Being alone in the flat would allow me time to investigate the Book of the Dead.

"Actually," Stephen said awkwardly, looking away. "I think it would be a good idea if you spoke with your parents today."

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I had been putting this whole thing off, assuming a new identity, figuring out what I was going to tell my parents, officially cutting ties with my family, Benouville, all of it. The simple fact of the matter was, I didn't want to do anything. I thought that if I put it off long enough, a solution would magically present itself, independent of any consequences.

I know, it sounds delusional, but hey, it took me like 3 months to figure out I'd been _seeing ghosts, _so its pretty obvious I' very good at denial. In fact, I might as well be freakin' Cleopatra. De Queen of De Nile.

After Stephen had left for his secret something-or-other, mumbling a terse "Well, I'm off," I decided to take a real look at The Book of the Dead, hoping it would provide some insight into the ceremony Jane had me perform. The ceremony was Greek, but something nagged me about the Egyptian book. I got an unpleasant tingly feeling whenever I was around it, sort of like a way less intense version of zapping a ghost.

Sitting down on the futon, I opened the cover and...

...Promptly ran into some majorly hard to read hieroglyphics. Well, crap. Next best thing: Google. What came up was interesting. Apparently, The Book of the Dead read as a sort of Ancient Egyptian manual, a manual that described how to get into the Underworld. That definitely sounded like the Elusenian mystery thingies. Beyond that, I didn't see any real connection, until the names Isis and Osiris caught my eye.

I remember learning about them, brother and sister, god and goddess, wife and husband. Osiris was the ruler of the gods, where Isis was a fertility goddess and his queen. Pharaohs in Ancient Egypt sought to model their marriages after Osiris and Isis, and that's why they married their sisters. My gut churned.

I lay down on the couch, studying the Book of the Dead. The pounding in my head grew worse as I searched the pages for any notes, highlights, or even excessive dog-earing. And before long, the impossibility of understanding the hieroglyphics lulled me to the sleep.

I was back in the room again, on Hyssop Drive, the one with the bodies. It reeked of copper and death. This time, my surroundings were vivid and real. I was _aware_. OF everything. Of the fact that I was dreaming, of the oddly loud ticking clock, of the slow and bloody _drip drip drip _that was coming from Jane's ravaged throat. I felt like I had traveled back in time to the moments just after they'd killed her.

Sid and Sadie were there, lounging against some of the more hideous decor. My brain sounded off several alarms, all of them telling me they were not supposed to be there. I was instantly afraid.

"Why are you always in my dreams?" I asked.

"Its easier for us to reach you this way," Sadie explained. "Humans are so malleable in their subconscious states. Its truly intoxicating." She breathed in as if she were smelling dinner being made before it was on the table. Hungry for now, yet already satisfied, knowing what was to come.

"We're in my subconscious? Like, actually here?" I looked around. Everything did seem a little too familiar, as if the house on Hyssop were my creation, not someone else's. And maybe it was mine. Not my house, thank God- I mean, _the animal print_\- but my idea of the house.

My memory.

"Oh, yes. Thank you for having us," Sadie murmured, as if we were having tea together.

"Thank you for infiltrating my subconscious," I replied drily, looking for a way out. "Wait...you said 'humans'. As in...me. As in...not you?"

They just smiled at me.

"Who _are _you?" I demanded shakily.

Sadie laughed. "Oh, do tell her Sid. You're the wordsmith. At least, you were a couple decades ago."

"A couple decades is nothing, dear sister. Although I believe you should be the one to tell our dear girl, our wonderfully animate terminus. I mean, just look at her." His eyes gleamed wickedly as they roved over me. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "She obviously likes you better," he cooed.

I resisted the urge to tell I'm how much I detested the both of them.

"Oh, all right," she said, waving a hand in front of her. "Each culture in each era knows us by different names. In Ancient Greece, we were Hera and Zeus."

"I'm Zeus, she's Hera," Sid piped up helpfully.

"In Ancient Egypt, Osiris and Isis. To the Abneaki tribe, Malsumis and Gluskab. Then there's Endiku and Gilgamesh- oh, Sid, wouldn't you say I'm the civilized one?- Yama and Yami to the Hindus. We have existed before time, and earth, and we are older than any language, dead or modern. It has been Sid and I, and it shall always be so."

I remained silent.

"Okay, well, you get the point. And that very point is, my darling. We're old. We're powerful. And we're gods. We're represented in all cultures, in all religions. Tell me, are you familiar with The Bible?"

"Just Revelation." Thanks to Scary Seafood.

Sadie frowned at that. "Oh, dear. That's the most frightening book, I'm afraid. You really ought to have to look at some of the others, they're quite nice. Instructional. But anyway, there's a "false gods" bit in there that everyone who has taken to Christianity- and really, Rory dear, there are a lot of them nowadays- takes quite seriously. This is a major problem for us." She sauntered around the ornate room, touching little things here and there, playing with me as a cat plays with a mouse. She was fully aware she was in control.

She was a _goddess_ for fuck's sake.

I took the bait. "Why is it a problem?" I asked, eyeing her prowling warily.

"Well, simply because," she breathed. "Sid and I are dying."

I laughed.

They raised their eyebrows in unison, looking at each other with amusement. This moment, somehow, convinced me they were in fact, divine. They did nearly everything in perfect accord, and what they did independently was complementary to the other. They were not individuals. Rather, it was if they were two halves of the same whole. It was extremely creepy, and if I were being honest, I was kind of jealous. In the deepest, darkest part of my heart, I had always wanted o find that in someone. Not, mind you, a freaky incestuous brother-sister god relationship, but a connection like that.

I guess that was another thing that separated humanity from the divine. Individualism. Go figure.

"I suppose I delivered that line with too much levity, Sid," Sadie bemoaned, theatrically throwing herself onto the chaise.

"I'm sorry," I said, still laughing a little. I mean, they were such terrible liars. "But you're _gods_. Like, immortal. Like, you can't _die. _The state of Louisiana's public school system isn't that bad, you know."

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no." Sid tutted. "Sadie is being very honest, very honest with you, our wonderful diamond. My beautiful sister is right, unfortunately. We are dying," he sighed heavily. "We are dying because of the _living_." His lip curled into a snarl, as if he'd smelled some bad cheese. Or good cheese. I can never tell with cheese.

"Mortals," Sadie said sadly. "So inconsequential, yet so powerful at the same time. It is their belief, or lack thereof, lovely Rory, that is doing us in. It is the modern era with its secularism," she spat the word out like poison, which to her, I guess it literally was, "and monotheistic influence that is to be our downfall."

Sid glided towards me, a slight and terrifying smile on his face. He stroked my hair, smiling wider when I shuddered. "Unless, little jewel, you help us." He bent down so he was eye-level with my 5"5 frame. His breath smelled like wet, dead leaves.

"You see, we need you, special one. We need your power, as ours is waning. It is directly tied to mortal belief, you see," he shook his head. "That is why we have taken moral bodies. We are trapped unless we harness it. And," he added, exhaling deeply, "I'm afraid its killing you anyway."

"What?" I asked incredulously.

Sadie nodded. "All the weight you've lost- exquisite, by the way, like a beautiful little sylph, and believe me, I've met quite a few- your headaches, your fainting spells...they aren't a coincidence. You're waning, petite fleur. And unless you give that power to us, well, then no one gets what they want."

I didn't know how to process this, so I ignored it. Denial-pro, remember? "Except if you get your power back, you'll kill a bunch of people. and wreak general havoc on the world," I pointed out reasonably.

Sid waved a hand. "Oh, goodness no," he chuckled, then amended: "Well, maybe a little. But only to show people our powers, make them believe in us again. They do not need to love us, only believe in us. And there is nothing quite like fear that makes one believe in the impossible."

"I won't help you."

At that, Sid slashed a grin that was more a baring of teeth than anything. "Oh, we might have expected that. But, we care not. If you won't help us willingly, we are going to have to help ourselves."

He slowly circle me. "We might as well try to convince you to see our side of things, mm?" He spared a glance at Sadie, still delicately sprawled on the sofa. "What do you think, sissy?"

Sadie clapped her hands, delighted. "Oh, Sid, I love it. We'll get to know the handsome one a little better. You know, the one we met down in the dumps, so to speak. The clever one involved with the Shadow Cabinet."

My ears pricked up at the phrase just as my blood boiled. If they so much as took one _look_ at Stephen, if they even dared to hurt him...Well, there would be hell to pay.

"Oh?" Sadie questioned. "You don't remember our time together in the underworld? Well, I know your petit beau does, if he really belongs to The Shadow Cabinet. I would ask him what happened. It seems like he's lying to you, dearie." She made a sympathetic face, though her eyes were dancing.

"Men," she said, smirking at Sid. "Why do we put up with them?"

The dream ended as abruptly as it began. I called Stephen, Callum, Boo, Freddy, and even Thorpe, urging them all to come to the flat as soon as possible.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hands still shaking. The headache had returned with a vengeance.

When everyone had arrived, I made them sit down, thinking back to the time when Stephen had first explained everything to me. _Yes_, I thought. _Its better if they sit down._

I took a deep breath, knowing I was going to sound like a lunatic.

"I know what Sid and Sadie are," I said. "But you're not going to like it."

Callum rolled his eyes. "Out with it, Rory."

"Also, you've got to believe me, even if it sounds like-"

"For God's sake-"

"YES!" I nearly screamed, like a crazy person, shutting Callum up and startling Stephen a bit. "Exactly!"

I grabbed the edge of the futon tight, leaning forward, knuckles white.

"They're gods."


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Thanks for your reviews! This is probably gonna be the last update for a couple of weeks; I've got finals and end of school projects and other totally boring soul-sucking stuff going on. THE GOOD NEWS THOUGH is that this summer I will be literally getting paid to write, and it doesn't matter what I write, as long as I'm writing. So I will be posting a lot more a lot faster. Hope this tides you guys over till then. Review if you like it, review if you don't. Xx**

"Are you shitting me?' Callum exclaimed. "Fucking gods?!"

I had to say, out of all the possible reactions they could've had, I really didn't expect that one.

"Um.." I began.

"So what you're telling us, Rory," Callum interrupted, all but sneering at me "Is that these _things_, the things that were partly responsible for _Stephen's death_, that have power over the godforsaken underworld _and _our world, are _gods?" _

His stocky frame shaking with pent-up rage, Callum leapt to his feet with the natural grace of an athlete and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered in an explosion against the wall, some of the ricocheting shards narrowly missing my head by mere inches.

Everyone froze, including me. Freddy looked particularly distressed, as she had never quite been exposed to Callum's temper before. Thorpe had partially stood up, as if ready to tackle Callum to the floor. Stephen took one look at my shocked expression and turned, very slowly, toward Callum.

"Callum," Stephen said quietly, in the deadliest voice I had ever heard, "You _will not_ _ever _talk to Rory like that again."

Boo studied Callum, her eyes at once disappointed and sympathetic. I looked away, choking back tears.

Callum's face settled into an expression of shock, whether it was because of the way Stephen had talked to him or if he was shocked by his own behavior, I didn't know. Either way, he took a deep breath, sat back down, and mumbled a deeply embarrassed "Sorry, Ror. I'm just frustrated." He didn't look at me.

I nodded, fearing if I said anything my voice would crack and betray me.

Stephen relaxed his frown into his normal Serious and Focused Stephen Face. "Rory, will you explain a bit more about what you've discovered?"

I did, trying not to look at anyone. Every so often, my eyes would meet Stephen's, and I'd get a little jolt of _something_ that went from my heart to… somewhere significantly further.

"All right," he said when I was finished. "So they're claiming they're gods. I think, ultimately, what we need now is information. Research is going to be our best asset. We need to know what we're going up against, and we need them to think we don't know anything. As they're-" here he cleared his throat uncomfortably- "immortal and incredibly powerful, our greatest advantage is their ego, their hubris. If we can be clever, we'll be able to defeat them."

Boo seemed hesitant. "That's all good and well, Stephen, but I don't think anyone is getting the fact that they're _gods, _yeah? Like, unkillable."

Stephen rubbed his thumb over his lip. "Maybe not. But they were trapped in that underworld for a good 30 years. And," he continued a little wryly, "I don't think any of their previous followers are exactly in a position where they're able to raise them again, seeing as they're dead."

"Also," I piped up "Just because they're un_kill_able doesn't mean we can't permanently get rid of them. They were never born technically, so maybe we could find a way to, I don't know, get them to wink out of existence or something. "

At this, Stephen beamed at me, seeming pleased. His approval made me shine brighter for a second or two.

"Exactly. This is how we need to start thinking. Outside the box."

Thorpe broke in. "Right. So, Stephen, hit up your contacts for information, see if anyone's heard of Sid and Sadie. Maybe target people who lived around the last time they were alive in London? 60s-70s. Freddy, I need you to hack into the CIA's database, maybe see if they've ever had reports of something like this. The DoD would be helpful too. Cross reference records of two suicides and mass murders/ suicides/ whatever. Anything similar to our case." With a determined nod, Freddy left the flat, softly shutting the door behind her.

Thorpe's eyes grew a bit harder when he addressed Callum. "Callum and Boo, for now we need you on Rory. Sid and Sadie seem to think she has some sort of special power that can help them. We need to be sure they can't get to her, at any cost. "

"I'm sure that's not necess-" I started, only to be cut off by Thorpe.

"It is absolutely necessary," he emphasized with a pointed finger at me.

"You know, there's three pointing back at you when you do that," I informed him. Puzzled, he looked at his hand. Then he scowled at me, like I'd tricked him, and dropped it.

Thorpe sighed. "Don't go against me on this, Rory. This is much too dangerous for you to play hero again. Remember, if they capture you and gain more power, you might not be the only one who gets hurt. There are bigger implications in all this."

"I know but-"

"This is a direct order. Remain hidden, go out only when necessary, and if possible, try not to dream about them. Mental exercises might help. Stephen can teach you."

A little pissily, I acquiesced. On the outside, that is. I understood what Thorpe was saying, but I knew keeping me under lock and key wouldn't do anyone any good. Something told me Sid and Sadie would be able to get to me anyway, and I needed to be able to help. Plus, after the little "I am Callum, big strong man" coffee mug debacle I didn't exactly want to spend any amount of time under a resentful Callum's watch.

To look like a team player, I did what I was told and stayed put. Freddy and Thorpe had left to go do their respective things, and Stephen disappeared his room, muttering something about 'Highsbury St., that one died in the 60s, right?" Boo and Callum set up shop in the kitchen, muttering snappishly to each other. And then there was one. Playing the good little prisoner, I switched on the TV.

"Ah, old friend. You'll never forsake me."

After three episodes of British reality TV, I'd had enough. To be honest, I was a little tired of watching Kate try to dance with James in front of Evelyn when they were out at the clubs. I mean, Evelyn called dibs on James the first day. You gotta respect the dibs. I decided to head to the kitchen to maybe smooth things over with Callum and apologize for making him and Boo babysit me. It had gotten awfully quiet in there.

I didn't think about why exactly it had gotten so quiet until it was too late. I pushed on the swinging door only to find Boo and Callum locked in a passionate embrace. They always say that in romance novels, "passionate embrace" and honestly, that was my attempt at a euphemism. In reality, they were going at it like a couple of bunnies.

Boo was pressed against the refrigerator, gasping for air. Callum kept moaning and licking her neck, grinding his hips into hers. They were both shirtless, hands moving at lightning speed up and down each other's bodies. I felt like I had walked into a real life porno.

I tried to back out of the room really quietly, but I banged my hip against the counter on my way out and accidentally yelped. Immediately, Boo and Callum sprung apart, and I looked at everything else in the kitchen but them as they scrambled to get their clothes on.

"Rory, oh my God, sorry-"

I had no idea the salt and pepper shakers were actually designed like little people.

"_Great _timing Ror-"

Or that the faded, white dishtowels had little ducks on them.

"Um, sorry, so sorry" I said. I'll just… go." I gestured vaguely into the space behind me that _didn't_ have Boo and Callum hormones all up in it and practically ran out of the room…

Bumping directly into Stephen. I nearly toppled over. His hands flew out to steady me, his brow furrowed in concern. "Rory. Where's the fire?"

I laughed. Fire indeed. "In the kitchen," I said. Taking me literally, he moved a little more urgently toward the kitchen, intent on putting out whatever fire I had been crazy enough to leave behind without dousing.

I blocked his entrance and saved both him and the two lovebirds from embarrassment of the acutest kind. Knowing Stephen, he would never be able to look either of them in the eye again if he knew what I knew.

"No," I said, unable to help a little smirk from escaping. "You don't wanna go in there, trust me. Callum and Boo…" My cheeks flushed, remembering _exactly_ what they had been doing in there. When I met his eyes, I replaced Boo and Callum in my imagination with Stephen and I.

He stared at me quizzically, then decided to let it drop for some reason. Helplessly, my gaze was locked on his full lips, wanting to see what they tasted like at 4 o'clock on a Thursday. I bit my own, hard, to try to quash the tingling anticipation that had arisen.

I felt more than saw his body straining towards me, in the same way you can feel that there's no cars coming without looking or whether its going to rain. No explanation, no evidence, just feeling. Energy. Physically, he hadn't moved any closer, but it almost didn't matter. Not when I knew how badly he wanted to.

Unconsciously, I leaned toward him, my traitorous body begging with me-

"Er, Rory we're terribly sorry-" Callum and Boo burst in, Boo awkward and embarrassed, Callum contrite.

Snapped out of the moment, I turned toward them. "Its okay," I assured them, snorting a little. "I'm from New Orleans. I've seen _much _worse. On the streets, even."

I glanced at Stephen. He took in Callum's backward's shirt and Boo's mussed hair. Realizing what had probably happened in the kitchen, two bright spots of color stained his pale, high cheekbones.

A dumb, weirdly jealous thought popped into my head: I wanted to be the one to make him blush like that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi guys! Thank you so much for the reviews! When I get them they honestly make my day! Okay, so I know I haven't updated in literally forever, and I know I said I was going to write a lot this summer, but plans changed. I got a typical 9-5 job so I don't have time to write in between hanging out with friends and family, working, and just being plain tired haha. ALSO THE FREAKIN' SITE WOULDN'T LET ME UPLOAD IT UNTIL I GOT FIREFOX AND I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND I WAS FREAKING OUT BECAUSE I'VE HAD THIS CHAPTER READY TO POST SINCE LIKE MAY. But luckily it worked! Jesus fuckin' christ. Anywayyy to make up for not writing in awhile, this is a pretty hefty chapter! Also, there's an extremely steamy scene so read at your own risk! I promise to not leave you hanging for so long again! Happy reading! Xx**

Because everyone was traumatized by the whole Callum and Boo situation (Stephen muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh bugger" and raced out the door) my protective detail shut themselves up in their rooms, so I snuck out of the flat.

Now, before you say "Gee, Rory, what a stupid idea. Do you WANT to get yourself killed and become Sid and Sadie bait?" let me explain a few things.

One, I am not someone who will sit idly by while people put themselves in danger for me. I don't know, I'm a lot like Harry Potter that way. Two, because of Thorpe's asinine Keep Rory Prisoner plan, 3 of us were relegated to doing nothing in the flat. We were probably the only 5 people in the world who could fix this Gods Gone Wild problem, and 60 percent of us were chilling out like couch potatoes. Three, I was also wearing a disguise, in the form of a baseball cap and sunglasses.

The point is, I was justified, and also not being a complete idiot about it, keeping to the darkened cover of the growing shadows in the encroaching twilight. I was going to visit someone. I had to see about a couple of gods.

When I got to Highgate Cemetery, he was there, almost as if he were waiting for me. Nervously, he looked around, as if he were searching for an escape route.

"Old Jim!" I called out pleasantly. "How have you been since you locked me in that mausoleum and tried to set me on fire? Well, I trust?"

"Bonnie lass! Now you know Old Jim wouldn't have hurt you. Old Jim doesn't hurt no little girls," he replied, shifting from one foot to the other. "It was a joke, was all,"

"Oh, really?" I inquired politely, inching closer. "I guess that makes sense. Because if it wasn't, then you're the absolute worst at killing people."

I lunged, throwing my arms out without touching anything, entrapping him, as if I were going to hug him. I'm sure I looked ridiculous to the casual passerby.

"Wha-" his eyes glittered angrily, deep, solid, black pits in his watery face. He understood the predicament he was in. "What do you want, little girl?"

"Well, first and foremost," I said, keeping very still so as not to touch him. "I want information."

Old Jim cackled. "Information? Now what kind of information would a good little girl be needin' from a fella like Old Jim?"

"See, that's the thing, Old Jim. They call you The Resurrection Man. Well, it just so happens that a couple of my friends were resurrected recently. As in from the dead. They go by Sid and Sadie, they're both blond, willowy, around 6 foot tall, say they're gods… any of this ring a bell?"

If it were possible, Old Jim would have blanched. "No, Old Jim don't know nothin' about gods. Except for the dear Lord Jesus Christ of course."

"See Old Jim I thought you might say that," I began conversationally, moving my hand ever so closer to his elbow region. Our skin was nearly an inch apart. "But I'm gonna give you one more chance to change your mind about what you know and what you don't know. Or else –and I think you know this already, am I getting famous in the ghost grapevine?- you go poof!"

I leaned my face in closer to his. If he had any breath, I would have felt it on my face by now. "So what do you think? You got anything useful for me?"

I would just like to take a moment to point out that I know all of this sounds very cliché, and that I am aware I sound like a villain in a bad horror flick. The fact is, the whole threatening torture thing came surprisingly easy to me, and I'm just going to blame this on the American film industry and its habitually violent content.

Old Jim swallowed, then seemingly gave in, shoulders slumping. "Okay, I've heard some things through- what did you call it? The ghost grapevine?- and it isn't good, missy. Word is there is something out there amassing power through human sacrifice-"

"Yeah, I know all this already," I cut in impatiently. "How do we kill them?"

Old Jim snorted. "You don't, little lady. They're immortal."

My heart seized. Could they have been lying when they said they were dying? "So there's no way to take them down?"

Jim thought for a minute. "I guess if you find a way to take all of their power away, you take their essence away. Gods survive on belief and belief equals power. If you can drain them of their essence, they would cease to exist."

I began to feel a shred of hope grow.

"But," Old Jim added. "No human can do that, only gods. That's the rules, they tell me. If a human tried, well…" Old Jim smiled a terrible smile. The atmosphere changed, grew more charged. The shadows on the gravestones seemed to lengthen, and suddenly I felt like the least powerful being in the cemetery.

He saw my face change and began to smile. I squashed he urge to back away.

Old Jim began chanting:

"Body parts here and there,

Splattered on walls and in your hair.

Oh what a pretty sight to see

Body parts strung all over me."

My mother raised me to be a polite young southern girl, but all I could think in that moment was "What the actual _fuck?"_

I felt the air around us shift into something sinister, Old Jim was still singsonging that weird poem, looking absurdly happy.

"Information's been given to bonnie lass

And Old Jim's not used to acting an ass

For her rudeness, now she'll pay

When Old Jim's friend comes out to play."

Suddenly I felt something heart-wrenchingly cold touch the entire right back side of my body. I whipped around just in time to see the horrific, monstrous being I'd encountered before wink out of existence, and funnel into me.

It was… Too much. It was like touching hundreds of ghosts at once. Brutal and empowering and it _hurt oh it hurt more than anything I've ever experienced and I was sorrow and I was pain and I was lament and grief and everything sad and bad in this world and _then it was over.

I dropped to my knees, gasping, fighting the blackout. This couldn't happen again, or I would be in the same situation as before, trapped in a burning mausoleum. Grimacing, I gritted my teeth, gasping for breath. I fought every protective instinct in my body and stood, feeling weak.

Old Jim had stopped laughing.

I staggered closer, trapping him against the brick wall. Surprisingly, he didn't move through it. He must not have had Jo's patience or skill. I pinioned him against it, my arms a cage.

Half-blind with rage and pain, I ignored the blood streaming from my nose and grinned, teeth stained with red.

"Please, no, little lassie…"

He was begging now, looking genuinely afraid of me. I was glad of it.

"One last thing before you go, Old Jim."

His eyes widened.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

Then I plunged my hand into his stomach.

Somehow, I managed to fight the urge to faint all the way to the flat. I dreamily recalled something Sid and Sadie said in my dream. Something about me dying? Or was that them? I forget, the dream was so clear when I woke up but so hazy now. In fact, it felt like the more I thought about it the less I was able to remember. I would reach out for it, expecting something tangible, but it would slip through my fingers like smoke.

I certainly felt like I was dying right now.

I stumbled toward the apartment, hoping no one had noticed I was gone. I checked my phone. 17 missed calls. Shit.

I ducked into a nearby pub and washed the blood off my face and mouth. I tried to sneak back into the flat soundlessly, but I was so tired I bumped into the side table and tripped over some tennis shoes. That's how they all found me, limbs splayed out on the floor like a drunk spider. I blew the hair out of my face and looked up at 3 very pissed off faces. "Hey, uh.. what's going on guys?"

Stephen's expression was thunderous. "Though it seems like you are deliberately trying to get yourself killed, we have bigger issues right now Rory. Sid and Sadie have finally made themselves known-"

"What? You guys fought them? But I thought they needed me in order to-"

"...to all of London," he finished.

"What?!" I screeched, clambering up.

Just then I noticed the news was blaring on the TV. Looking beyond Stephen's shoulder, I suddenly understood.

An anchorwoman was reporting at the scene of Blackfriars Bridge, or, more accurately, what used to be Blackfriars Bridge. It was in shambles. The news station kept replaying footage of the bridge collapsing into the Thames, seemingly out of nowhere. Cars and people alike- probably hundreds- were little dark spots on the screen that helplessly fell to the murky depths below.

Immediately I was reminded of Katrina. I was four again, holding my mom's hand as we watched the news in my Aunt Sharon's house, having just evacuated to Texas the day before. I saw people- our people- stranded on roofs and wading through brown water, stealing food from grocery stores, homes and livelihoods destroyed by what was supposed to be just another storm.

Oh my god.

I didn't realize I'd spoken the curse aloud until Boo put her hand on my elbow, giving it a squeeze. I looked over at her, my eyes taking a while to focus on her face, solemn and sad and vengeful all at once.

We had failed those people. I had failed those people. This is what it felt like to take accountability for the deaths of hundreds of innocents, of strangers.

Guilt was choking me. I couldn't breathe.

I looked around and saw it on my friends' faces too. I stumbled into the kitchen and threw up in the sink.

Callum and Stephen hung back, but Boo stayed with me, rubbing my back, whispering "I know, Ror. I know," emptily in my ear and holding my hair back.

When I was done, I wiped my mouth, took a moment to collect myself, and asked her the question I needed to.

"Did anyone see them?"

Boo's mouth tightened into a line. She gave one jerky nod.

"Not all news channels are reporting it right now- Thorpe is trying to erase all of the CCTV footage- but its going to be in all the papers tomorrow. Those fucking-" she took a shaky breath. "They were standing on the bridge before it happened, amplifying their voices somehow, and announced who they were. They smiled, they _smiled_ Rory, and then they raised their arms. Brought them down. There was a loud grinding noise, the bridge cracked right down the middle, and then it was chaos." Boo looked away. "We knew this would happen. We knew and we didn't do anything to stop it. They're calling it a right terrorist attack." She rubbed her eyes. "God."

"No," I said, looking dully past her. "I don't think He's going to be much help."

I looked up at her then, my proud, strong friend, now weak and broken. Once a fire, now reduced to ashes.

I thought back to what Old Jim said, what I did to him, and what I read about in The Book of the Dead, putting it all together- the exhaustion, the weight loss, feeling sick... Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

I cleared my throat, making sure my voice was strong when I said what I said next.

"Boo? I think I know how we're going to stop them."

Stephen and I were in his room, practicing mental exercises in order to keep Sid and Sadie out of my dreams. At first, a lot of it was me being embarrassed to be sitting on his bed with him so close and so quiet. Then, I really started listening to what he was saying.

"Close your eyes, Rory. Both eyes. Now, focus on your breathing, on clearing your mind. Completely blank, completely nothing. You exist, but in a purer sense. Untouched by memory and thought. Now, focus on putting up walls around that space. Build them, brick by brick if you must. Make them impenetrable. Create a mental block."

I was so exhausted from earlier I nearly fell asleep. My closed eyes were proving too great a temptation. Then, just as I was about to drift off, I pulled myself back. Became nothing. Built up four walls, taking time to carefully brick and mortar each and every crevice. I stood in the middle, feeling strangely protected, and I knew I had done it.

When I opened my eyes, Stephen was staring at me like... like he'd never stop. Despite my tiredness, despite my fear and guilt and sorrow, my veins jumped in my skin, electric and alive.

"Um," he began, clearing his throat. "Good job. Were you able to do it?"

"Do what?" I asked stupidly. Then I realized. "Oh. Yeah, your advice really helped." His lips looked so _soft._

He glanced away. "Good. That can help when you're stressed too. Instead of blocking out mental attacks, you can block out your worries for a little while, sort of like a meditation technique. You can use it when you go back home."

I stared at him blankly. "What?"

"When all of this is over, I mean. When you return to the States with your family."

I stilled, completely shocked. "I'm not going back."

Stephen shook his head. "Rory. You are."

"No, I'm not! I'm changing my identity, remember? I just haven't gotten around to it yet-"

"Why do you think you haven't gotten around to it? I convinced Thorpe that you needed to be back home with your parents-"

I exploded. "_Who are you _that you think you can make that decision for me?!"

In the face of my anger he remained infuriatingly calm. That was a neat little trick of his. "Rory. You're still a minor. You need to be with your parents. It's for the best."

I was on my feet, stabbing a finger in his direction in a red haze of fury. "I'm going to college in less than 6 months! I'll be 18 in less than 3! I'll be on my own then anyway!" I bit my lip as frustrated tears threatened to leak out. Traitorous eyeballs.

Stephen said nothing.

"I've been helping, I've proven to be useful. Yes, I know I snuck out today and that wasn't the brightest decision-"

Stephen broke in "Oh, 'it wasn't the brightest decision'?! Rory you could've gotten yourself killed-"

"Except for the fact that Sid and Sadie were too busy killing other people at the time! No matter what you say, you guys need me-"

"No," Stephen said bitingly. "We don't."

I stilled, my heart going cold and hot and frozen and bleeding all at the same time. "What?"

Stephen clenched his teeth, his breath expelling from his nose in a way that reminded me vaguely of a cow snort.

"The fact of the matter is, the Shades existed before Aurora Deveaux, and they will exist after her. The brutal and uncomplicated truth is, you're not as important to the operation as you think you are." The whole time he didn't look at me, as if watching me understand this was just too awkward for him.

I paused. Took a beat. Took two. Then I understood.

"Oh. Wait. I get it now."

Stephen looked up, hopeful.

"Dude, this is such a cliche. You're hurting my feelings because its what's best for me, right? Um, hello, did you even read Twilight? You're totally pulling an Edward Cullen right now," I smiled, feeling light and free and mostly just relieved.

Stephen looked, to say the least, surprised and confused.

"Remember?" I continued. "He left her in the woods, told her he didn't love her anymore, ruined her life for like 6 pathetic months, and then he thought she died and..." I trailed off. Stephen looked horrified.

"I mean, not that you and I are in love. Not that we're not- I mean, I really like you, I'm sure you noticed, and I think you really like me, maybe. Because we kissed that one time. And I'm not saying I'm Bella or whatever. Because she's lame, and because you're definitely not Edward Cullen. I mean, not because you're not hot, or anything. I mean, he's just sparkly and a vampire. I mean, you are pretty pale..."

_Oh Jesus Christ, Rory. Get it together._

Stephen cleared his throat again, but his voice still came out funny. "I am aware of Twilight's plot-line."

"Well, technically that was New Moon, but-"

"Rory."

"Okay, okay," I put my hands up. "My point is, I know I'm useful to the Shades. As one of two termini, I _know_ I am, okay? I can seriously make a difference, at least until you guys get another one. So what you're doing, the whole pushing me away and hurting my feelings thing? It's not going to work. Also, I read Twilight in like, the 6th grade."

Stephen sighed. I sat back down on the bed.

Hesitating for a second, I reached out and grabed his hands, looking into his startled eyes. "Look, I know you think I need to be home and with my family, and I can see why you think that. Sometimes I think that too, if I'm being honest." I squeezed his hands. "But the shades have given me a purpose, like a real purpose in life. How many people get that? I get to help people and ghosts alike, and hang out with friends that I never have to lie to. Like about who I am or what I do."

I turned my head away, embarrassed. "You guys mean a lot to me, okay? My family does too, I'm not saying they don't but...

"I'll have to live a lie for the rest of my life if I go back with them," I finished. "Anyone I become friends with, or even if I get married and have kids... They won't know. They couldn't possibly. They'd think I'm crazy. Or a scam artist.

"I could never be myself, not fully anyway," I said quietly.

Briefly I wondered if this whole conversation was a moot point, if what Old Jim and the twins said was true. I were dying, none of this would matter. That terrified me. I considered telling Stephen about what I suspected.

I raised my head, searching his eyes. "Stephen-"

He cut me off with his lips, searing searing searing against mine. I was shocked. Baffled. Bewildered. Perplexed. But mostly just deliriously happy.

Our mouths began to move together, slowly at first, then faster. He coaxed my lips apart with his tongue, and then I was tasting him, tasting the tea he'd had to drink that afternoon, and my hands spread like wildfire across his body. His shirt was off. My shirt was off. Somehow, I was on my back and we were still kissing. I never wanted to stop.

I loved seeing this side of Stephen. Raw, uninhibited. I loved knowing that I affected him like this. I loved his fragile looking throat and his strong chest and his beautiful eyes. I loved him. His fingers traced my scar, slowing down a bit. I tensed, nervous and exhilarated. He mistook my body's reaction for self-consciousness, and left my lips to kiss my earlobe. "You're beautiful," he whispered, shaking his head.

I looked up into his face, his glasses knocked askew. I removed them for him, folded them up in my hand, kissed his nose, his eyelids, his mouth. "So are you," I whispered back. I brushed the hair away from his face and he closed his eyes, briefly. Then he leaned down to kiss my forehead. I caught his lips with mine instead, then, ever so gently, caught his bottom lip between my teeth and pulled.

He moaned into my mouth and I felt more powerful than I ever had before. I smiled.

Then, he slowly lowered his hips onto mine and I stopped smiling.

I'm a modern girl. I've done stuff with boys before. I mean, I'm 17, living in a sex- obsessed society, and a curious person by nature. But this was different. It was Stephen.

I was completely undone by him.

I gripped his shoulders hard, raising my head to nibble on his neck a little, and he stiffened for one sweet moment, then ground himself into me, almost as if he couldn't help it. I let out a little gasp near his ear. I felt more than heard him swallow.

"Rory, I can't- if we go on- I don't know if I can stop-" I cut off his protest with a kiss. He seemed to give in, resting his full, lovely weight on top of me.

He pulled off, leaving me bereft, and I almost cried out. But then I felt his fingers moving down over my belly, onto the buttons of my jeans. He left them there, poised and ready, and looked up at me, a question in his eyes. I smiled a little, bit my lip, and tried not to nod too enthusiastically. Surely enough, button by button, his fingers carefully moved over that area of my body, still his serious and meticulous self. Then he hooked his fingers around the waistband of my jeans and slowly peeled them off me, kissing my navel, my bikini line, my upper thigh, my knee, my ankle, and suddenly I was pantsless. I briefly panicked, trying to remember what underwear I put on that morning, but then relaxed when I realized it was the cute kind Boo bought for me.

I was nearly naked under his stare, but the look in his eyes emboldened me. I hooked my legs around his waist and twisted us around so that I was on top. Stephen's eyes widened. I kissed my way down his chest, feeling his breath catch at every contact my skin made wit his. Then I was at his jeans. I dropped a kiss on the middle button and he jerked a little under me, though the kiss was butterfly light. I began to unbutton his jeans the way he did with mine, slowly and deftly. I slid them off him, revealing designer boxer briefs- how totally Stephen- then tossed them into the corner of his room. I lowered the most intimate parts of me over the most intimate parts of him, and inched my hands up his chest, until we were fit together as closely as two people can be. We were still clothed in all the important places, but that was okay for now. I knew if those last two articles of clothing came off, there would be no going back. And with Stephen, I didn't want to rush.

Stephen plunged his fingers into my hair, and I leaned forward, moving a little and making him groan a little and my mouth was almost on his when-

There was a loud knock at the door.

"Stephen! Rory! I know you guys are doing that mental mumbo jumbo but Thorpe's here! We need to go over the particulars of Rory's plan with him before Sid and Sadie hurt anybody else!"

Callum.

Like a shot, we were both off the bed, scrambling around for our clothes. Stephen was yelling "Yeah, be right out!" and not really looking at me. He ran his hands through his hair and blew out a breath, and he looked so terribly human and adorable that my heart swelled up.

Once we were both dressed, I straightened my clothes. "Do I look alright? Normal?" I asked him.

He kind of just stared for a second, then blinked a bunch. "Yeah, you look fine."

"Do you have something in your eye?" I asked. He stopped blinking.

"No." Then he ushered me in front of him and we haltingly made our way into the living room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey ya'll- its been a while. I honestly don't even know if anyone still reads this, haha. I hope so! **

**Anyway, here's the second to last chapter. There will only be one more, the final conclusion! Ah! As always, reviews are appreciated. Much love, xx. **

After an exhaustive 5 hour "Let's Stop Sid and Sadie" sesh, everyone hunkered down to get some sleep before the big day. A day that will live in infamy as "The Day the Shades Stopped 2 Gods from Wreaking Havoc on the World and No One will Ever Know". Or "The Day the Shades Failed at Saving the World and We're All Screwed", I guess. Goddamn.

Callum and Boo were canoodling in Callum's room, having slunk off as soon as Thorpe signaled the end of the meeting by briskly clapping his hands together with a very British "Right then".

Stephen left with him to help strategically prepare their part in tomorrow's plan. I, just being the terminus- oh, and _the brilliant mastermind behind the plan in question_, something both men conveniently seemed to forget- was left out of any further discussion and told to get some rest. This was mostly okay, because my head felt like a dwarf was beating it from the inside with a tire iron and I kept having to quietly throw up in the bathroom. I hadn't told anyone about what Sid and Sadie said, or what I suspected. Thinking there is a good chance you're going to die and knowing it are two different things, and honestly, depending on how tomorrow went, it might not matter.

Despite my maudlin suspicions, my overall anxiousness, and just feeling like complete shit, I couldn't handle spending possibly my last night on earth alone watching TV. So I texted Jerome and Jazza and invited them over for a pizza night.

I missed them. And the fact that it would incense Stephen was just a plus.

Before they came over I called my parents from one of Boo's track phones.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Rory?" her voice shifted then, sounding strained, and immediately grew sharp. "Rory, where are you? Dad and I have been frantic. We got a call from this Thorpe person who told us you were safe, but he wouldn't say anything more. Rory, please come home. Please. There was an attack on the bridge…. Please just come home. We're so worried."

I heard a muffled "Is that Rory?" in the background. Dad sounded so upset. I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry.

"I'm sorry mom. I- I can't tell you where I am right now. I just wanted to call you and tell you I'm safe, and that... and that I love you. I'll be able to call you with more details after tomorrow but, I can't right now. I'm sorry."

Mom sucked in a breath, somehow more punctured over the phone. "Rory, I don't know what you've been involved in, or what's going on, but honey, there's still time to fix it. You can come home. Please, if.. if you do, me and dad won't ask any questions, we'll forget about your running away, we'll go home. _Home_, home. To New Orleans. Forget about this year like it never happened." She was pleading now. "_Please, _Rory, please-"

With shaking fingers, I hung up.

I was in the bathroom, sitting on the back of the toilet, feet planted on the seat. I looked up and saw the tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes. I sniffled, wiped my hands across my cheeks, and stared grimly into the mirror. How had I gotten to this point? How had my life changed so drastically in just a few months?

Before I could really get too deep into _that _particular abyss of crap, the doorbell rang, signaling Jerome and Jazza's arrival. I blew out a breath, shook off my dismal disposition, and readied myself to spend some much-needed time with my friends.

* * *

If anyone were looking into the flat's windows, they'd see a fairly normal scene:

One young, golden-haired, bright-eyed girl shoving an adorably curly haired, tallish boy who was gesturing wildly with a slice of pizza in his hands, paying no mind to the pizza sauce flecks that were staining the carpet; a nearly empty pizza box revealing numerous grease stains laying open on a worn, wooden coffee table; a pale, thin, brunette girl watching them, loving them, losing herself in a beautifully normal moment, the type of moment that you can't really treasure until it's passed and you've changed.

If anyone were looking into the flat's windows, they'd see 3 high school kids having fun. But no one was, and I knew better.

Jerome made some quiet comment about the attack on the bridge yesterday, looking at me questioningly. Of course he would link that scary weirdness to my scary weirdness; the kid was too bright. I mumbled a vague response and conversation resumed easily like it always did, with Jerome breaking out his quick witted jokes.

Just as Jerome got to the punch line- some physics joke that went over my head and had Jazza snorting her pop out of her nose- Boo and Callum ventured cautiously into the living room, looking bleary eyed and mussed.

"What's happening, then? Pizza party?" Boo brightened and quick as an asp, snatched the last piece, plopping herself down on the love seat next to me. His hand still reaching for the now- empty box, Callum looked at her with equal parts annoyance and fondness. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Good to know that while some things changed, Boo ultimately stayed the same.

As Callum took a spot on the floor, Jazza explained, "We were just about to watch this new Ripper documentary. Jerome is interviewed in it. It's supposed to be eerie and give new updated background info on the Ripper, but… now that we know what really happened, we thought it would be funny."

I waited for Boo or Callum to get upset by this, but neither seemed to care. Callum just grinned and softly knuckle-punched Jerome's shoe where it was resting on the coffee table. "Wonder what they would've done if you told them the real story in your interview?"

As I sat there watching my friends from my two different worlds hang out, I felt an indescribable peace settle over me. Yes, tomorrow would be dangerous and scary, and yes, we might all die. But right now, right now in this moment, there was love and joy and the triumph of living. It was a good life, I realized. No matter how short or long, as long as this existed, it would always be a good life.

It was while I was thinking this that Stephen finally came home.

He seemed surprised to find his apartment full of pizza and people, but he said nothing, just took off his coat and shoes, walked to the love seat (empty now, save for me, as Boo was curled up like a cat next to Callum), murmured a quiet "Shove over", and sat down next to me.

I knew I was in trouble by the way that little action made me glow inside. I felt so violently happy I could hardly contain my grin.

He smelled of London: exhaust and cold. He blew on his hands, like they weren't quite warm enough yet. Emboldened by the darkness of the room, I took them in both of mine and slowly rubbed them. I brought his hands to my lips and blew gently as I met his surprised stare and watched his lips part slightly. I wanted so badly to close the distance between us and kiss him, but the presence of everyone, specifically my ex boyfriend, in the room held me back.

After a beat, I tore my eyes and hands away from his and concentrated on the movie. It was torture to sit there next to him and feel his closeness, yet feel so empty, knowing I couldn't bridge the gap between us. The wanting started somewhere in my toes and then worked its way up into my soul, until I felt I could scream for the unfairness, the overflow of _need _bottling up with no relief.

Five minutes, or maybe five thousand, passed by, and I felt I was nearly about to go insane when suddenly I felt one, two, three fingers, then a hand, on top of mine. I glanced up at Stephen, who was still staring at the TV. He rubbed my thumb with his, and the corner of his lips turned up a little.

Well.

Two could play at that game.

I slowly, so slowly, moved his hand to my thigh, not high enough to be _there_ but just high enough. He sucked in a breath, finally turning to look at me.

I smirked. He frowned a little, then pursed his lips. Moved his hand farther up, raised his eyebrows. A challenge.

If I had known playing with fire would be like this I would've started doing it a long time ago.

I bit my lip, widened my legs on the couch, forcing his hand to move even higher. His fingertips were brushing _there_, and he must have noticed this, because his hand stilled. My cheeks heated, and I felt like crying out.

But then Callum asked Stephen a question without turning around, and Stephen jerked his hand back like I burned him.

Soon enough, Boo and Callum sauntered off to Callum's room, and Jerome and Jazza had to leave. I protested, of course, but in response Jerome rolled his shoulders and said a bit sheepishly "Sorry, Ror, school night," and that was that.

I hugged them both extra harder than I needed to, and kissed Jazza on the cheek. "I love you guys," I said, attempting nonchalance. I guess I failed, because Jazza gave me a concerned look as she left.

Then it was just me and Stephen alone in a dark apartment.

He was looking at the kitchen tile, thinking hard about something. When he noticed me staring, he took his glasses off and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it.

I prepared myself for a "what we're doing isn't a good idea" speech, but he just glanced up from underneath his thick eyelashes and in a real quiet voice asked "Bed?"

I nearly melted to the floor.

"Bed." I responded, nodding.

* * *

In his room, I could hardly breathe.

I mean, it was Stephen I was laying next to, but also it was _Stephen_ I was laying next to. The boy I _loved._

He was shirtless, in his boxers. He had bashfully thrown his shirt on the floor while I took off my jeans, and so between the two of us we weren't wearing a whole outfit.

But we still weren't touching.

I think we were both lying face up toward the ceiling, not looking at each other, but I couldn't tell because I refused to look at him.

Then he turned to me, and reached out under the covers, and found my hand. And I turned to face him.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hi," he whispered back.

For about 30 seconds, we were silent.

Then I said, "I'm scared."

He frowned. "Rory, we don't have to do anything-"

"Not about that," I interrupted him, wiggling closer to him to prove my point. "I- I'm… I'm scared of losing this, all this that I've built here. This city, these people, this life, all of it."

He shuddered and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer. "Me too."

A confession.

I buried my head into his neck, breathing him in. Mmm. The faint hint of whatever posh cologne lingered on him.

For some reason, the scent triggered a memory. "Hey Stephen?" I asked, the sound muffled against his warm skin.

The vibrations of my voice had him tensing and pulling me closer, holding me tighter.

"Mhmm?" he said sleepily.

"What's the Shadow Cabinet?"

* * *

Stephen sighed, rolling over and putting an arm across his eyes.

"There's a lot more to it than I want to get into right now, but it's essentially a secret group dedicated to the protection of London."

I blinked. His forthrightness was surprising for many reasons, the least of which was, well, he was _Stephen._ He never just shared information unless it was absolutely necessary. I expected to have to at least have to needle him more.

He glanced over out of the corner of his eye with a rueful expression, noticing my astonishment, and huffed a laugh. "I'm only telling you because you already knew."

"What?"

"In the... Other Place. When- when you came to get me," he swallowed. " I explained it to you then."

"You _remember what happened?" _I shrieked. "How?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But you didn't, and.. it didn't seem right, to tell you."

"How would that not seem right? Stephen, we had the same experience, you always do this to me, shut me out-"

"I wasn't shutting you out," he cut in. "I was protecting you. And I'm telling you now."

I felt like I should be mad, but what he said made sense, and besides…

"There was snow… and my house in Louisiana… and a diner," I said softly, the memories flooding in. Seeing Stephen lost and confused, waiting for his sister.

"We kissed?" I asked.

He nodded his confirmation.

"Hey," I said gently, reaching for him again. "Are you okay? About Regina?"

He looked at me then, regret and pain and sadness in his eyes. But nothing I saw there was anything to be worried about. Stephen was strong, and he was still grieving, but it was the kind of grief that never quite went away, the kind you have if you lose someone you really love.

"Yes," Stephen answered. "I'm okay."

We spent a while just staring at each other in silence. There were still moments like these, sometimes, little blissful moments when I marveled that Stephen was alive, really and truly alive.

Despite everything.

And I knew, I knew that what we faced tomorrow, it would change everything. We may survive, or we may not, but either way there would be a conclusion; I might never be able to be this close to Stephen again, I realized. I might never be able to say the things I needed to say to him.

So I did it then.

"The day you died, I…" I stopped. Started again. "Well, I went out of my mind. I wouldn't let anyone touch you. I knew I had to try to save you, bring you back…That's why I grabbed onto you, wouldn't let you go. It was probably-" at this my voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tears leaking out. "It was probably the most selfish thing I've ever done, trying to keep you here like that, trying to make you into a.. a _ghost."_ I whispered the last word, ashamed.

"But I had to," I continued. "I had to. And you know why? You know why I followed you into hell, Stephen Dene?"

"Because despite everything, despite you trying to get me to go back to America ever chance you get, despite the way you shut me out, despite not really knowing what our futures are going to look like, despite all of it, I love you. I love you, and I wasn't willing to say goodbye to you then, and I'm not willing to say goodbye to you now, and I probably won't ever be. And I love you. _I love you._ And I needed you to hear it tonight, right now, because tomorrow… tomorrow we might have to say goodbye. For good this time."

"And I can't make the same mistake of letting you go without knowing, without me ever telling you. So, yeah," I finished lamely, wiping my cheeks. I snuck a peek at his face.

And my heart stopped. Because Stephen was looking at me like…well.

Like he loved me too.

"Rory," he said my name like a prayer.

He fit me back against the whole length of him, and ducked his head to my ear, placing a kiss on my temple, my neck, my earlobe, before he finally murmured:

"I love you too."


End file.
